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.sriidoD  nov  §nß§lIoW  nnsriol. 


Johann  Wolfgang  von  Goethe. 


• y 


Copyright,  18G7, 

By  D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY. 


c • • 


1/3 


COFTEOTS. 


BOOK  1. 


CHAPTER  IH^GB 

I.  Introduction,  1 

II.  The  Trials  of  Life, .10 

III.  Henrietta  von  Wolzogen, 22 

IV.  Joy  and  Sorrow,  . . 33 

V.  Charlotte  von  Kalb, 41 

VI.  The  Title,  59 

VII.  Adieu  to  Mannheim  I . . ^ . 68 

VIII.  Plans  for  the  Future,  . e 73 

IX.  The  Last  Ride,  85 


BOOK  IL 


I.  After  the  King’s  Death, , ill 

II.  “Le  Roi  est  Mort ! Vive  le  Roi  !”  . . • r . 120 

III.  The  Favorites, 12C 

IV.  The  Maid  of  Honor,  .......  138 

V.  Figaro, 143 

VI.  The  Alliance, 157 

VH.  The  Conditions, 173 

VIH.  New  Love, 180 

IX.  The  Decision, 189 

X.  The  Invocation,  ....  ...  198 

XI.  The  Will, 214 

XH.  Leuchsenring, 226 

vv 


2 4Mr3>)  t 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


BOOK  III. 

CHAPTER  PA&B 

I.  Scliiller  in  Dresden,  .•••*..  236 

II.  Gilded  Poverty, 245 

III.  Marie  von  Arnim  > • . . . 252 

IV.  Souls  in  Purgatory,  . ...  268 

V.  Separation, • . 283 

VI.  The  Song  “ To  Joy,  293 

VII.  Together  once  more,  299 

VIII.  Goethe  and  Moritz, 314 

lA.  Leonora, • . • . 326 

X.  A Dream  of  Love,  • • • . 340 

XI.  Adieu  to  Italy,  ••«•••••  OSS' 


BOOK  IV. 

I.  TheEeturn,  . 360 

II.  Reconciliation,  ........  377 

III.  Grim  Death,  , . 385 

IV.  Goethe’s  Return  from  Rome, 894 

V.  Estrangement,  ........  404 

VI.  The  Two  Poets,  c r o . . . . . 421 

VII.  The  First  Meeting, 431 

VIII.  Wilhelmine  Rietz,  443 

IX.  Husband  and  Wife, 450 

X.  The  Attack,  . . 460 

XI.  Youth  Victorious, . 470 

XII.  Schiller’s  Marriage,  . . . ^ . 482 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


BOOK  L 


OHAPTEE  I. 

INTKODUCTION. 

The  honest  and  peaceful  inhabitants  of  Mannheim,  the 
capital  of  the  Palatinate,  had  long  since  retired  to  rest;  the 
streets  were  deserted,  and  the  houses  wrapped  in  darkness. 
Only  high  up  in  the  little  how  window  of  a corner  house  on 
the  Palace  Square  still  glimmered  a faint  light  like  the  sub- 
dued gleam  of  a lamp  in  a sick-chamher. 

But  the  watch,  who  had  just  proclaimed  at  the  corner  in 
stentorian  tones  the  third  hour  of  the  morning,  knew  better ; 
and,  as  he  entered  the  square,  he  again  looked  up  at  the  illu- 
minated window,  gravely  shaking  his  head. 

Mr.  Schiller  has  not  yet  gone  to  bed,’'  said  he  to  himself; 
“ writing  all  night  again,  I suppose.  But  I will  not  stand  it! 
Did  I not  promise  Mr.  Streicher  that  I would  always  look  up 
at  his  window,  and,  whenever  I found  the  light  burning  after 
one  o’clock,  protest  against  it?  Well,  then.  I’ll  try  it  to- 
night, and  keep  my  word,  as  an  honest  man  should.” 

And  in  stentorian  tones  the  watchman  cried  out,  “Mr. 
Schiller!  Halloo!  Mr.  Schiller!” 

For  a moment  the  window  was  darkened  by  a shadow,  and 
then  opened,  and  a hoarse  voice  demanded,  “Who  called? 
who  called  my  name?” 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


“I,  Mr.  Schiller.  I,  the  watchman,  Fabian,’*  roared  the 
man  in  response. 

“ And  what  do  you  desire  of  me,  worthy  guardian  of  the 
worthy  city  of  Mannheim?” 

I wish  to  beg  of  you,  Mr.  Schiller,  to  be  so  good  as  to  put 
out  your  light  and  go  to  bed.” 

‘‘  What  brought  you  to  this  strange  and  ridiculous  idea?” 
exclaimed  the  voice  from  above,  laughing  loudly.  “What 
does  the  light  behind  my  windows  concern  you,  a watchman 
and  a guardian  of  the  streets?” 

“ Eeally  it  doesn’t  concern  me  at  all,”  cried  the  watchman. 
“ I know  that  very  well,  but  I have  promised  the  music- 
teacher  of  my  daughter,  Mr.  Streicher,  to  pay  attention  to 
your  window,  and  every  time  I see  the  light  burning  in  your 
room  after  one  o’clock,  to  call  you,  and  beg  you  in  the  name 
of  your  dear  friend  to  be  kind  enough  to  put  out  your  light 
and  go  to  bed.” 

“ A very  ridiculous  idea  of  Mr.  Streicher,”  said  the  voice  of 
the  invisible  poet,  laughingly,  “ and  I am  only  surprised  that 
you  should  do  his  bidding,  and  take  this  task  upon  yourself.” 

“ Don’t  be  surprised,  sir,  for  I am  not  doing  it  gratis.  Mr. 
Streicher  told  me  that  whenever  I had  called  you,  and  begged 
you  in  his  name  to  go  to  bed,  I should  have  to  pay  only  half- 
price  for  the  next  piano-lesson  of  my  daughter ; and  I beg  you, 
therefore,  Mr.  Schiller,  to  be  good  enough  to  tell  Mr.  Streicher 
to-morrow  that  I have  done  his  bidding.  And  hereafter  do 
as  you  please,  sleep  or  wake.  I have  done  my  duty.  Good- 
night, Mr.  Schiller 

“ Good-night!” 

TTie  poet  rapidly  closed  the  window,  and  drew  the  folds  of 
the  old  threadbare  coat  which  served  him  as  a dressing-gown 
closer  around  his  shivering  form. 

“ 'I'lie  good  and  true  Streicher,”  he  murmured  in  a low 
voice,  “ is  an  honest  soul,  and  means  well,  and  does  not  know 
how  he  has  injured  mo  to-day!  I was  in  the  grandest  flow  of 
enthusiasm;  all  the  discomforts  and  necessities  of  life  had 


INTRODUCTION. 


3 


disappeared ! I was  no  longer  cold,  there  were  no  more  tor- 
menting creditors,  no  cares,  and  no  pangs  of  love ! I was  in 
thy  heaven.  Father  Zens ! And  the  messenger  of  my  friend 
comes  and  calls  me  back  to  the  cold,  inhospitable  earth. 
The  fire  of  my  enthusiasm  is  extinguished,  and  now  I am  sen- 
sible that  there  is  no  fire  in  the  stove!’' 

He  raised  his  large  blue  eyes,  and  glanced  through  the 
dimly-lighted  space  toward  the  high  black  stove,  within  the 
open  grate  of  which  only  a few  glimmering  coals  were  visible. 

‘‘No  fire,”  sighed  Schiller,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  “and 
no  wood  to  make  one.  Poor,  feeble  man!  The  fire  of  the 
soul  does  not  suffice  to  warm  thy  shivering  body,  and  the  prose 
of  life  ever  recalls  thee  from  the  Elysian  fields  of  poetry. 
But  it  shall  have  no  power  over  me.  I will  defy  it ! Forgive 
me,  friend  Streicher,  but  I cannot  do  your  bidding!  Your 
watchman  calls  to  me  to  sleep,  but  Don  Carlos  calls  to  me  to 
be  wakeful!  I cannot  let  the  Spanish  prince  call  in  vain! 
Fortunately  the  coffee-pot  is  still  standing  in  the  stove.  If  it 
is  yet  warm,  something  can  be  done  for  the  poor,  shivering 
body.” 

He  rapidly  went  across  the  room  to  the  stove,  knelt  down 
before  the  fire-place,  drew  the  brown  coffee-pot  from  its  bed 
of  ashes,  raised  it  to  his  lips  and  refreshed  himself  with  sev- 
eral long  draughts,  after  which  he  carefully  restored  the  ves- 
sel to  its  former  place. 

Truly  a strange  sight,  this  long,  thin  figure  in  the  gray- 
yellow  fiannel  gown,  a pointed  nightcap  on  his  head,  stooping 
before  the  stove  and  occupying  himself  with  a coffee-pot ! If 
the  admirers  of  the  tragic  poet  Schiller  could  have  seen  him 
in  this  position,  they  would  never  have  believed  that  the 
young  man  in  this  miserable  apparel — the  long,  lean,  angular 
figure,  with  the  bony,  homely  face  and  yellow  hair,  loosed 
from  the  confinement  of  the  queue,  and  falling  in  dishevelled 
masses  over  his  sunken  cheeks — that  this  man  was  the  author 
of  the  three  tragedies  which  for  the  last  few  years  had  filled  all 
Germany  with  astonishment,  admiration,  and  terror.  Like 


4 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


the  column  of  fire,  harbinger  of  a new  era,  they  towered  on 
the  grave  of  the  old,  licking  the  heavens  with  tongues  of  fiame. 

About  ten  years  before,  Goethe’s  “ Sufferings  of  Young 
Werther”  had  fiooded  Germany  with  great  enthusiasm.  This 
wonderful  book,  half  romance,  half  reality,  had  pierced  the 
hearts  of  all  like  lightning — as  if  these  hearts  had  been  but 
tinder  awaiting  ignition  and  destruction  at  the  touch  of  this 
eloquence,  this  passion  of  love,  and  revelling  in  destruction  by 
such  heavenly  agents!  In  the  impassioned  and  excited  state 
of  the  public  mind,  Goethe’s  “Werner”  had  been  received  by 
the  youth  of  Germany — yes,  of  all  Europe — as  a revelation  of 
the  spirit  of  the  universe,  as  a proclaiming  angel.  On  bended 
knees  and  in  ecstatic  devotion  they  listened  to  the  heavenly 
voice  which  aroused  their  hearts  from  sleep  with  the  holy 
sirocco  of  passion,  and  awakened  them  out  of  the  tameness  of 
prose  to  the  passion  and  vehemence  of  poetry ; to  the  blissful 
pain  of  unsatisfied  longing  and  heaven-achieving  love. 

And  now,  when  the  excited  minds  had  hardly  quieted  down, 
when  the  dazzled  eyes  had  hardly  become  accustomed  to  the 
heavenly  effulgence  shed  upon  them  by  “ Werther” — now, 
after  scarcely  ten  years,  another  wonder  occurred,  another  of 
the  stormy,  impassioned  periods,  of  which  Klinger  had  been 
the  father  and  creator,  with  his  soul-stirring  dramas,  had 
given  birth  to  a new  genius,  and  a new  light  was  diffused  over 
Germany. 

In  the  year  1774  Goethe  had  published  his  romance, 
“Sufferings  of  Young  Werther.”  Carried  away  with  sym- 
pathy by  his  lofty  enthusiasm,  all  Germany — yes,  all  Europe — 
applauded  and  hailed  him  as  the  wonderful  poet  who  had  em- 
bodied the  sorrows  and  pangs  which  agitate  the  heart  and  soul 
of  each  individual,  in  a sublime  symphony,  in  which  every 
sigh  and  every  thought  of  suffering,  weeping,  rejoicing,  and 
exulting  humanity,  found  expression.  Schiller’s  first  trag- 
edy, “ ''Fhe  Robbers,”  was  produced  upon  the  stage  for  the 
first  time  in  1782;  and  its  effects  and  results  were  of  the 
most  vast  and  enduring  character. 


INTRODUCTION. 


5 


Goethe,  with  his  ‘‘  Werner,”  had  imbued  all  hearts  with  en- 
thusiasm for  love  and  feeling;  Schiller,  with  his  “Robbers,” 
filled  all  hearts  with  yearnings  after  liberty  and  hatred  of 
tyranny.  The  personal  grandeur  and  freedom  of  man  were 
idealized  in  the  noble  robber  Charles  Moor,  and,  not  only  was 
this  magnanimous  robber  the  hero  of  all  young  girls,  but  the 
hearts  of  all  the  young  men  were  filled  with  abhorrence  of 
and  contempt  for  the  tyrants  who  had  compelled  this  high- 
minded  man  to  flee  to  the  Bohemian  forests  and  become  a 
robber  in  order  to  escape  the  galling  chains  of  subserviency  to 
princes. 

Enthusiasm  for  this  champion  of  liberty,  this  robber, 
Charles  Moor,  at  the  same  time  imbued  ail  with  detestation 
of  tyrants. 

The  lion-rampant  which  was  to  be  seen  on  the  printed 
copies  of  “The  Robbers,”  and  which  bore  the  motto  In 
Tyrannos^''  was  only  a representation  of  the  German  people, 
who,  moved  to  the  core  by  Schiller’s  tragedy,  and  made  con- 
scious of  the  worth  and  dignity  of  man,  asserted  itself  in  its 
majesty  against  tyranny. 

“ Had  I been  present  at  the  creation  of  the  world  as  God,” 
said  a German  prince  at  that  time,  “ and  had  I foreseen  that 
‘The  Robbers’  would  be  written  in  this  world,  I would  never 
have  created  it.” 

In  a German  city  where  “ The  Robbers”  was  produced  on 
the  stage,  the  performance  had  so  powerful  an  effect  on  the 
minds  of  the  youth,  that  twelve  young  men  formed  the  plan 
of  fleeing  secretly  from  the  houses  of  their  parents  to  the  Bo- 
hemian forests,  in  order  to  make  up  a band  of  robbers.  All 
the  preparations  had  been  made,  and  the  twelve  juvenile  rob- 
bers had  agreed  to  meet  on  the  following  night  at  a desig- 
nated place  outside  the  city  gate;  when  one  of  the  young 
heroes,  in  giving  his  mother  a last  good-night  kiss,  could  no 
longer  restrain  his  tears,  and  in  this  manner  led  to  the  dis- 
covery of  the  great  secret  and  the  prevention  of  the  plan  by 
the  arrest  of  the  youthful  band  of  aspirants. 


6 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


As  the  German  public  was  filled  with  rapture  for  the 
suicidal  love-hero  Werther,  it  now  worshipped  the  suicidal 
robber-hero  Charles  Moor : while  love  then  excited  its  trans- 
ports, liberty  and  the  rights  of  humanity  were  now  the  objects 
of  its  enthusiasm. 

And  the  poet  Schiller  added  fuel  to  the  fiames  of  this  en- 
thusiasm. A new  tragedy,  the  theme  of  which  was  liberty, 
“Fiesco,”  soon  followed  his  ‘‘Robbers;”  and  the  sensation 
which  it  caused  was  still  to  be  surpassed  by  that  excited 
throughout  all  Germany  by  his  third  tragedy,  “ Louise  Mül- 
lerin, or  Intrigues  and  Love.”  This  was,  at  the  same  time, 
an  exaltation  of  noble  love,  and  of  the  proud  human  heart, 
and  a condemnation  and  denunciation  of  the  established 
prejudices  which  arrogantly  recognized  nobility  and  gentle 
birth  as  conferring  prerogatives  and  privileges. 

“The  Robbers,”  “ Fiesco,”  and  “Louise  Müllerin,”  these 
were  the  fiaring  torches  of  the  revolution  which  in  Germany 
was  to  work  out  its  ends  in  the  minds  of  men,  as  it  had  done 
in  a more  material  manner,  in  France,  on  their  bodies.  In 
France  royalty  and  the  nobility  were  conducted  to  the  guillo- 
tine, in  Germany  they  were  pilloried  in  public  opinion  by  the 
prince  and  court  marshal  in  “ Intrigues  and  Love.” 

Goethe  had  given  the  German  public  the  ideal  of  love — 
Schiller  gave  them  the  ideal  of  liberty.  And  the  poet  of 
“ The  Robbers”  was  as  warmly  enshrined  in  the  heart  of  the 
German  people  as  the  poet  of  “ Werther”  had  been. 

But  alas!  the  admiration  and  enthusiasm  of  the  German 
public  shows  itself  in  words  and  praises,  but  not  in  deeds  in 
material  proofs.  True,  the  Germans  give  their  poets  a por- 
tion of  their  hearts,  but  not  a portion  of  their  fortune. 

Schiller  had  given  the  Germans  his  three  tragedies;  they 
had  made  their  triumphal  march  over  every  stage  in  Ger- 
many; but  Schiller  had  nevertheless  remained  the  poor  poet, 
whose  only  possession  was  the  invisible  laurel-wreath  which 
adorned  his  noble  brow,  accorded  him  by  the  German  people. 

Ilis  countless  admirers  saw  him  in  their  inspired  thoughts 


INTRODUCTION. 


7 


with  his  youthful  head  entwined  with  laurel,  and  would,  no 
doubt,  have  been  horrified  if  they  could  have  seen  him  in  his 
dressing-gown,  the  nightcap  pulled  down  over  the  laurel, 
stooping  in  front  of  his  iron  stove  and  endeavoring  to  rekindle 
the  coals  with  his  breath,  in  order  that  his  coffee  might  be 
warmed  a little. 

But  it  was  a vain  endeavor.  The  fire  was  almost  out,  the 
coals  glowed  but  faintly,  and  the  poet’s  breath  was  not  strong 
enough  to  renew  the  flame. 

“All  in  vain,”  sighed  Schiller,  replacing  the  coffee-pot  on 
the  ashes,  with  a disconsolate  shrug  of  the  shoulders;  “where 
there  is  no  fuel,  there  can  be  no  fire.” 

He  slowly  arose  from  his  kneeling  position,  and,  his  hands 
folded  behind  his  back,  walked  with  rapid  strides  to  and  fro 
in  his  little  chamber.  The  dimly-burning  tallow-candle 
which  stood  on  the  table,  covered  with  papers  and  books, 
flared  up  whenever  he  passed,  and  illuminated,  for  the  mo- 
ment, the  large  rugged  figure  and  the  pale  countenance,  with 
the  high  forehead  and  light-blue  eyes.  At  first  this  counte- 
nance wore  a gloomy,  troubled  look.  But  by  degrees  it  as- 
sumed another  expression;  and  soon  the  flaring  light  showed 
in  this  dingy  little  room  the  features  of  an  inspired  poet,  with 
sparkling  eyes,  and  an  exulting  smile. 

“Yes,”  he  exclaimed,  in  a loud  voice,  “yes,  it  shall  be  so! 
I will  append  this  scene  to  the  third  act,  and  it  must  be  the 
loftiest  and  grandest  of  the  entire  tragedy.  Not  to  Prince 
Carlos  or  to  the  queen  shall  Posa  proclaim  his  sublime  ideas 
of  liberty  and  his  plans  for  the  happiness  of  the  people.  No, 
he  shall  hurl  them  in  the  face  of  the  tyrant,  of  King  Philip 
himself.  With  the  lightning  of  his  words  he  shall  warm  this 
rock  of  tyranny,  and  unseal  the  spring  of  inspiration  in  the 
breast  of  the  man-despising,  bigoted  ruler,  and  make  the 
waters  of  human  love  play  joyfully ! Oh,  ye  eternal  gods,  give 
me  words.  Are  my  thoughts,  and  give  wings  to  my  inspiration, 
that  I may  be  able  to  give  expression,  in  a flow  of  rapture  and 
poetry,  to  that  which  now  Alls  my  whole  soul!” 


8 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


He  rushed  to  his  table  and  threw  himself  with  such  violence 
into  his  old  stool  that  it  groaned  and  cracked  beneath  him. 
But  Schiller  paid  no  attention  to  this;  his  whole  soul  was  in 
his  work,  his  whole  heart  was  filled  with  enthusiasm  and  de- 
light. His  hand  fiew  over  the  paper,  his  smile  brightened, 
his  countenance  became  more  radiant.  At  times  he  dictated 
to  himself  in  a loud,  energetic  voice,  the  words  which  his 
fiying  pen  conveyed  to  the  paper,  that  they  might  henceforth 
to  all  eternity  be  indelibly  imprinted  in  the  hearts  of  his 
readers.  But  Schiller  was  not  thinking  of  his  readers,  nor  of 
the  possible  effect  of  his  words;  he  thought  only  of  his  work. 
There  was  no  room  in  his  soul  but  for  poetry,  for  the  sublime 
and  lofty  scene  which  he  wished  to  add  to  his  tragedy. 
‘‘  Oh,”  he  now  exclaimed,  his  pen  speeding  like  an  arrow  over 
the  rustling  paper,  “ oh,  could  the  combined  eloquence  of  all 
the  thousands  who  are  interested  in  this  lofty  hour,  but  trem- 
ble on  my^  lips,  to  fan  the  spark  which  I feel  into  a fiame ! 
Abandon  this  unnatural  idolatry  that  destroys  us.  Be  our 
model  of  the  eternal  and  the  true,  and — ” 

A severe  and  painful  cough  interrupted  the  enraptured 
poet ; he  was  compelled  to  discontinue  his  recitation ; the  pen 
faltered  in  his  quivering  hand ; and  from  the  sublime  realms 
of  the  ideal,  bodily  pain  recalled  the  poet  to  reality. 

He  let  fall  the  pen,  the  arrow  which  the  gods  had  be- 
stowed, to  enable  him  to  divide  the  clouds  of  prejudice  and 
throw  open  to  enraptured  humanity  the  heaven  of  poetry, — 
he  let  fall  the  pen,  and  raised  his  hand  to  his  trembling,  pant- 
ing breast. 

“ How  it  pains;  how  it  pricks!”  he  groaned.  “ Is  it  not  as 
if  the  tyrant  Philip  had  thrust  his  dagger  into  the  breast  of 
poor  Posa,  in  the  anger  of  his  offended  majesty,  and — ” 

Another  attack  of  coughing  silenced  liirn,  and  resounded 
through  tlie  quiet  solitary  chamber.  Tlie  sound  struck  upon 
liis  ear  so  dismally  tliat  lie  cast  a liasty  glance  behind  him  into 
the  gloomy  sjiace,  as  if  looking  for  the  ghost  which  had  ut- 
tered such  dreary  tones. 


INTRODUCTION. 


9 


“ If  this  continues,  I am  hardly  repaid  for  haying  fled  from 
my  tyrannical  duke,”  murmured  Schiller.  ‘‘  Truly  I had  bet- 
ter have  remained  and  served  out  my  poor  miserable  existence 
as  regimental  surgeon,  than  cough  my  life  out  as  a German, 
that  is,  as  a hungry  poet.” 

But  as  he  said  this,  his  lips  quivered,  and  self-reproach  was 
depicted  in  his  countenance. 

“Be  still,”  he  exclaimed,  “be  still!  Shame  upon  you, 
Schiller,  for  uttering  such  unmanly,  cowardly  words!  You 
a poet,  Frederick  Schiller?  you  are  not  even  a man!  You 
aspire  to  ascend  the  heights  of  Parnassus,  and  sink  down  dis- 
heartened and  discouraged  when  an  evil  annoys  you  on  the 
way,  and  admonishes  you  that  you  are  only  a man,  a mortal 
who  aspires  to  climb  to  the  seat  of  the  gods.  If  you  are  a 
poet,  Frederick  Schiller,  remember  that  the  gods  are  watch- 
ing over  you,  and  that  they  will  not  cruelly  abandon  you  be- 
fore the  goal  is  half  achieved. 

“No,”  he  exclaimed  in  a loud  voice,  raising  his  head,  and 
looking  upward,  “ no,  the  gods  will  not  abandon  me ! They 
will  give  me  strength  and  health  and  a long  life,  that  I may 
accomplish  the  task  which  my  soul  and  mind  and  heart  tell 
me  is  required  at  my  hands.  No,  Parnassus  stands  before 
me,  and  I will  climb  it!”  His  beaming  eye  glanced  upward 
in  ecstasy  and  saw  not  the  low  dusty  ceiling,  the  want  and 
indigence  by  which  he  was  surrounded.  He  gazed  into  im- 
mensity; the  low  ceiling  opened  to  his  view,  and  through  it 
“he  saw  the  heavens  and  the  countenance  of  the  blessed!” 

A loud  noise  in  the  street  awakened  him  from  his  trance. 
It  was  the  watchman  blowing  his  horn  and  calling  the  hour  in 
stentorian  tones. 

“ Four  o’clock,”  murmured  Schiller,  “ the  night  approaches 
its  end! — and  my  candle  also,”  he  continued,  smiling,  as  he 
looked  at  the  brass  candlestick,  from  the  upper  rim  of  which 
the  softened  tallow  was  falling  in  heavy  drops,  while  the  wick 
had  sunk  down  into  the  liquid  mass. 

Schiller  shrugged  his  shoulders.  “ It  annears  that  I must 


10 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


stop  in  the  middle  of  my  grand  scene  and  go  to  bed.  My 
good  friend  Streicher  has  in  vain  begged  me  to  do  so,  through 
his  musical  messenger  of  love ; and  now  a tallow-candle  com- 
pels me  to  do  so ! What  poor,  miserable  beings  we  men  are ! 
A trifling,  inanimate,  material  thing  has  more  power  over  us 
than  the  spirit,  and  while  we  oppose  the  latter  we  must  sub- 
mit to  be  overcome  by  the  former!  Therefore  to  bed,  to  bed! 
Farewell,  my  Posa ! The  poor  human  creature  leaves  you  for 
a few  hours,  but  the  lofty  human  mind  will  soon  return  to 
you!  Good-night,  my  Posa!’* 

The  wick  of  the  miserable  candle  flared  up  once  more  and 
then  expired  with  a crackling  noise  in  the  liquid  tallow. 
^‘That  is  as  it  should  be,”  laughed  Schiller;  “the  poet,  like 
the  mule,  must  be  able  to  And  his  way  in  the  dark  on  the 
verge  of  an  abyss!” 

He  groped  his  way  through  the  little  room  to  his  bed- 
chamber, and  undressed  himself  rapidly;  and  the  loud,  reg- 
ular breathing  soon  announced  that  the  young  poet,  Frederick 
Schiller,  was  wrapped  in  health-giving  and  refreshing  slumber. 


CHAPTEE  II. 

THE  TRIALS  OF  LIFE. 

Frederick  Schiller  still  slept,  although  the  pale  winter 
sun  of  December  stood  high  in  the  heavens,  and  the  streets  of 
the  little  city  of  Mannheim  had  long  since  awakened  to  new 
life  and  activity.  Frederick  Schiller  still  slept,  and,  worn  out 
by  his  long  vigils,  his  work,  and  his  cough,  might  have  slept 
on  for  a long  time,  had  he  not  been  aroused  by  a loud  knock- 
ing at  the  door,  and  an  audible  step  in  the  adjoining  room. 

A young  man  stood  on  the  threshold  of  the  bedchamber  and 
wished  Schiller  a hearty  good-morning. 

“ I can  account  for  this,  Fritz,”  said  he,  raising  his  finger 
threateningly — “ not  into  bed  at  night,  not  out  of  bed  in  the 


THE  TRIALS  OF  LIFE. 


11 


morning!  Did  I not  send  yon  my  watchman  as  a love- 
messenger?  But  he  has  already  complained  to  me  that  it  was 
unavailing.” 

“Do  not  be  angry,  my  Andrew,”  exclaimed  Schiller,  ex- 
tending his  hand  to  his  friend  with  a cordial  smile.  “ A poet 
must  above  all  things  wait  upon  the  muses  submissively,  and 
may  not  show  them  the  door  when  they  pay  him  a visit  at  an 
unseemly  hour  of  the  night.” 

“ Ah,  the  nine  muses  would  have  been  satisfied  if  you  had 
shown  them  out,  and  had  graciously  accorded  them  the  privi- 
lege of  knocking  at  your  door  again  this  morning ! But  get 
up,  Fritz ! Unfortunately,  I have  something  of  pressing  and 
grave  importance  to  communicate!” 

With  one  bound  Frederick  Schiller  was  out  of  his  bed. 
“Of  pressing  and  grave  importance,”  he  repeated,  dressing 
rapidly,  “ that  sounds  very  mystical,  Andrew.  And  now 
that  I look  at  you,  I find  that  your  usually  open  brow  is 
clouded.  It  is  no  misfortune  that  you  have  to  announce?” 

“ No,  Fritz,  no  misfortune,  thank  God,  but  a very  great 
annoyance.  Miserable,  grovelling  poverty  once  more  stretches 
out  its  ravenous  claws.” 

“What  is  it?”  asked  Schiller,  breathlessly,  as  he  drew  the 
dressing-gown  over  his  shoulders  with  trembling  hands.  “ I 
am  now  composed  and  ready  to  hear  all ! Some  impatient 
creditor  who  wishes  to  throw  me  into  prison.  Is  it  not  so? 
Speak  it  right  out,  Andrew,  without  hesitation.” 

“Well,  then,  come  with  me  into  the  other  room.  There 
you  shall  learn  all,”  answered  Andrew  Streicher,  taking  his 
friend’s  hand  and  throwing  the  chamber  door  open,  which  he 
had  closed  behind  him  on  his  entrance.  “ Come  and  see!” 

“Mr.  Schwelm,”  exclaimed  Schiller,  as  he  observed  on 
crossing  the  threshold  a gentleman  standing  in  a window- 
niche,  whose  countenance  indicated  that  he  was  very  ill  at 
ease.  “Yes,  truly,  this  is  my  loved  and  faithful  friend,  Os- 
wald Schwelm,  from  Stuttgart,  the  literary  godfather  of  my 
career  as  a poet,  and — But  how  mournful  you  look,  dear 
2 


12 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


Schwelm!  and  not  a single  word  of  friendship  for  me,  no 
greeting?" 

‘‘Ah,  Schiller,  these  are  hard  times,"  sighed  Oswald 
Schwelm.  “ Anxiety  and  want  have  driven  me  from  Stutt- 
gart, and  I come  to  you  as  a right  unwelcome  guest.  Only 
believe  that  I deplore  it  deeply  myself,  but  I cannot  help  it, 
and  it  is  not  my  fault.  I would  gladly  sacrifice  every  thing 
for  my  friend  Schiller,  but  I have  nothing  more;  and  painful 
necessity  compels  me  to  remind  you  of  the  old  debt." 

“Do  not  judge  him  harshly,  Schiller,"  said  Streicher,  in  a 
low  voice.  “ Poor  Schwelm’s  difficulties  are  of  a very  urgent 
nature.  You  know  very  well  that  at  a time  when  no  printer 
could  be  found  to  put  your  ‘Robbers’  in  press,  Schwelm 
guaranteed  to  the  publisher  in  Stuttgart  the  expense  incurred 
in  its  publication,  because  he  was  convinced,  as  we  all  were, 
that  the  ‘Robbers’  would  make  you  a celebrated  poet,  and  not 
only  insure  you  a harvest  of  honor  and  renown,  but  also  of 
money.  Now,  unfortunately,  the  money  has  not  yet  been 
harvested,  and  poor  Oswald  Schwelm  has  had  the  additional 
misfortune  of  losing  his  capital  by  the  failure  of  the  commer- 
cial house  in  which  it  was  deposited.  Since  then  the  pub- 
lisher has  dunned  him  in  an  outrageous  manner,  and  has  even 
obtained  a warrant  for  his  arrest;  and,  in  order  to  escape, 
Schwelm  fled  from  Stuttgart  and  came  here!" 

“Forgive  me,  friend  Schwelm,"  said  Schiller,  rushing  for- 
ward and  embracing  the  young  merchant.  “Ah,  my  dear 
friends,  it  seems  that  you  have  mistaken  me  and  my  future ; 
it  seems  that  the  lofty  plans  formed  in  our  youthful  days  are 
not  to  be  realized." 

“They  have  already  been  realized  in  part,"  said  Schwelm, 
gently.  “You  are  a renowned  poet;  all  Germany  admires 
and  praises  you!  The  ‘Robbers’  has  been  given  on  every 
stage,  and — " 

“And  I have  not  oven  three  hundred  florins,"  interrupted 
Schiller,  sadly,  “not  even  a paltry  three  hundred  florins  to 
meet  the  just  demands  of  the  friend  who  confided  in  and  gave 


THE  TRIALS  OF  LIFE. 


13 


his  bond  for  me,  and  who  must  now  become  involved  in 
danger  and  difficulty  on  my  account.” 

“ Then  you  have  not  succeeded  in  getting  the  money  to- 
gether?” said  Streicher,  mournfully.  “I  imparted  to  you 
two  weeks  ago  the  contents  of  the  letter  containing  an  anxious 
appeal  for  help,  which  Schwelm  had  written  to  me,  and  you 
promised  to  procure  the  money.  Since  then  I disliked  to 
speak  of  the  matter  again,  because  I knew  you  would  surely 
leave  no  means  untried  to  raise  the  amount.” 

“And  I have  left  no  means  untried,”  exclaimed  Schiller, 
with  an  angry  gesture.  “ What  can  I do?  No  one  is  willing 
to  lend  or  advance  money  on  the  pitiful  capital  of  a poet’s  tal- 
ent ! The  few  florins  which  I have  received  for  the  repre- 
sentation of  the  ‘Robbers’  and  ‘Fiesco’  have  hardly  sufficed  to 
purchase  the  bare  necessities  of  life ; and  when  I begged  the 
manager,  Mr.  von  Dalberg,  to  advance  me  on  ‘Louisa  Mül- 
lerin’ at  least  three  hundred  florins,  as  he  had  determined  to 
put  it  on  the  stage,  he  refused  me,  and  I had  the  mortifica- 
tion of  being  turned  off  by  this  nobleman  like  a miserable 
begging  writer.” 

“And  your  father,”  said  Andrew  Schwelm,  timidly.  “Did 
you  not  say  that  you  would  apply  to  your  father.  Major 
Schiller?” 

“I  have  done  so,”  replied  Schiller,  with  a sigh.  “I  wrote 
urgently,  representing  my  want  and  troubles,  and  begging 
him  to  have  pity  on  his  poor  son,  and  to  lend  him  a helping 
hand  for  this  once.  But  it  seems  my  words  have  not  had 
power  to  touch  his  paternal  heart,  for  until  now  I have  in 
vain  awaited  a reply  on  every  mail  day.  And  it  seems  that 
the  mail  which  comes  from  Stuttgart  to-day  has  brought  me 
no  letter,  for  I believe  the  hour  at  which  letters  are  delivered 
has  long  since  passed.  I must  therefore  patiently  wait  an- 
other three  days  for  a reply,  and  the  next  mail  will  perhaps 
condemn  me  to  another  trial  of  patience.  Oh,  my  friends,  if 
you  could  see  my  heart,  if  you  could  estimate  the  pain  this 
mortification  causes  me!  For  myself,  I am  ready  to  suffer 


14 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


want,  to  content  myself  with  the  bare  necessities  of  life — yes, 
even  to  hunger  and  thirst,  to  attain  the  lofty  ends  to  which 
I aspire.  The  path  of  a poet  has  ever  been  a thorny  one,  and 
poverty  has  always  been  the  companion  of  poetry.  This  I am 
ready  to  bear.  I do  not  crave  riches;  and  even  if  the  tempter 
should  approach  in  this  trying  hour  and  offer  me  a million, 
but  with  the  condition  that  I should  forswear  poetry,  and 
write  nothing  more  for  the  stage,  I would  reject  the  million 
with  contempt,  and  a thousand  times  prefer  to  remain  a poor 
poet  than  become  a rich  idler.  But  to  see  you,  my  friends, 
in  trouble  and  suffering  on  my  account,  and  powerless  to  re- 
lieve you,  is  truly  bitter,  and — 

“The  letter-carrier,”  exclaimed  Streicher  joyfully,  as,  after 
a timid  knock,  the  door  was  softly  opened,  and  a man  in  the 
uniform  of  the  Thurn  and  Taxis  post-office  officials  entered 
the  room. 

“ A letter  from  Ludwigsburg.  Ten  kreutzers  postage,”  said 
the  carrier,  holding  out  a large  sealed  letter. 

“Ten  kreutzers,”  murmured  Schiller,  as  he  nervously  fum- 
bled in  the  pockets  of  his  dressing-gown  and  then  in  the 
table-drawer. 

“ Here  are  the  ten  kreutzers,  in  case  you  should  not  happen 
to  have  the  small  change,”  said  Streicher,  hastily,  as  ho 
handed  the  carrier  the  money  and  received  the  letter.  “ And 
here  it  is,  friend  Schiller.  Is  it  from  your  father?” 

“ Yes,  my  friends,  it  is  from  him.  And  may  the  gods  have 
been  graciously  inclined,  and  have  opened  my  father’s  heart 
to  his  son’s  prayer!” 

He  hastily  tore  off  the  cover  and  threw  open  the  large 
folded  sheet.  “Alas,  my  friends,”  he  sighed,  “it  is  a very 
long  letter,  and  that  bodes  no  good,  for  he  who  gives  says  but 
little,  but  he  who  denies  clothes  his  refusal  in  many  prettily- 
turned  phrases.  Let  me  read!” 

A few  moments  of  silence  followed.  Schiller,  seated  on  his 
chair,  his  arm  resting  on  the  table,  was  reading  his  father’s 
letter,  while  Andrew  Streicher  and  Oswald  Schwelm  were 


THE  TRIALS  OF  LIFE. 


15 


standing  opposite  him,  in  the  window-niche,  regarding  him 
anxiously  and  inquiringly.  They  saw  that  Schiller’s  brow 
grew  darker  and  darker ; that  his  cheek  became  paler ; and 
that  the  corners  of  his  mouth  quivered,  as  they  always  did 
when  the  poet’s  soul  was  moved  with  anger  or  pain. 

‘^Eead,  Andrew,”  said  Schiller,  handing  the  letter  to  An- 
drew Streicher,  after  a long  silence.  “ Eead  my  father’s  let- 
ter aloud,  that  you  may  both  know  what  I have  to  expect ; 
that  you  may  perceive  that  I am  nothing  but  a poor,  miser- 
able dreamer,  in  whom  no  one  believes,  not  even  his  own 
father,  and  who  must  be  awakened  from  his  illusions  by  harsh 
words.  Andrew,  read  the  lecture  addressed  by  my  father  to 
his  miserable  son.  To  hear  these  unhappy  words  from  your 
lips  will  serve  as  a penance,  and  may  perhaps  have  the  effect 
of  bringing  you  to  the  conclusion  that  my  father  is  right  in 
giving  me  up.  Eead  it,  Streicher.” 

Streicher  took  the  proffered  letter  and  read  aloud : 

“‘My  Son! — Here  I sit  with  his  letter  before  me,  and  its 
perusal  has  provoked  tears  of  displeasure.  I have  long  since 
foreseen  his  present  position,  the  foundation  of  which  has 
already  been  laid  in  Stuttgart.  I have  faithfully  warned  him 
against  it,  given  him  the  best  advice,  and  cautioned  him 
against  expending  any  thing  over  his  income,  and  thereby 
involving  himself  in  debts,  which  are  very  readily  made,  but 
not  so  easily  paid.  I gave  him  an  adequate  outfit  upon  leav- 
ing the  academy.  To  give  him  a start  in  the  world,  our 
gracious  duke  gave  him  for  his  services  what,  together  with 
the  little  his  parents  were  able  to  do  for  him  from  day  to  day, 
would  have  been  an  ample  support  for  him  as  an  unmarried 
man.  But  all  these  advantages,  all  my  teachings,  and  all 
hopes  of'  better  prospects  here,  have  been  able  to  effect  noth- 
ing. He  has  combated  all  my  reasons,  made  light  of  my 
experience  and  of  the  experience  of  others,  and  has  only  lis- 
tened to  such  counsels  as  would  inevitably  insure  his  destruc- 
tion. God  in  His  wisdom  and  goodness  could  choose  no  other 
way  to  bring  him  to  a knowledge  of  himself  than  by  sending 


16 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


this  affliction  to  convince  him  that  all  our  intellect  and  power^ 
all  reliance  upon  other  men,  and  upon  accidental  and  happy 
contingencies,  are  for  the  most  part  vain,  foolish,  and  falla- 
cious, and  that  it  is  He  alone  who  helps  all  those  who  pray  to 
Him  earnestly  and  patiently.  ’ '' 

“As  if  I had  not  done  so!’'  interrupted  Schiller.  “As  if  I 
had  not  besought  the  great  Euler  of  the  destinies  of  men,  in 
deep  fervor  and  humility  of  soul,  to  cast  a ray  of  enlighten- 
ing grace  upon  the  head  of  him  who  had  believed  it  to  be  his 
duty  to  follow  the  divine  call  of  poetry,  and  who  for  its  own 
sake  had  joyfully  relinquished  all  other  earthly  prospects  and 
hopes!  But  my  fervid  prayers  were  in  vain;  no  ray  of  mercy 
has  illumined  my  poor,  gloomy  chamber ; and  from  God  and 
man  alike  the  poet  receives  an  angry  refusal,  and  is  dismissed 
as  a beggar! — Bead  on,  Streicher!  I will  drink  the  cup  of 
bitterness  to  the  dregs ; not  a single  drop  of  gall  shall  remain 
untasted.  Eead  on,  my  friend!" 

“But,  Frederick,"  said  Streicher,  in  a tender,  imploring 
voice,  “why  impose  upon  yourself  and  us  the  penance  of 
reading  these  hard  words?  Your  father  means  well  with  you 
undoubtedly.  He  is  a good  and  honorable  man,  but  from  his 
stand-point  the  world  has  a different  appearance  than  from 
that  of  the  heights  of  Parnassus.  He  estimates  you  by  an 
ordinary  scale,  and  that  is  not  adapted  to  Frederick  Schiller. 
That  your  father  will  not  furnish  you  the  required  three  hun- 
dred florins  was  evident  from  the  commencement  of  the  let- 
ter, and  that  suffices." 

“No,  that  is  not  enough,"  exclaimed  Schiller,  earnestly. 
“ You  shall  know  what  my  own  father  thinks  of  me,  that  you 
may  be  under  no  more  illusions  concerning  me,  and  not  have 
to  reproach  me  some  day  with  having  infected  you  with  my 
fantasies,  and  held  out  hopes  that  would  never  be  realized. 
I beg  you,  therefore,  to  read  on.  It  seems  as  if  the  scorch- 
ing words  of  paternal  anger  might  in  some  degree  expiate  the 
criminality  of  my  conduct.  Eead!" 


THE  TRIALS  OF  LIFE. 


17 


Well^  Fritz,  if  you  insist  upon  it,  I will  do  so,”  sighed 
Streicher;  and  in  a loud  voice  he  resumed  the  reading: 

‘ He  has  not  been  humbled  by  all  the  chastening  adminis- 
tered to  him  since  his  departure,  and  experience  only  has 
made  him.  wiser.  That  he  has  suffered  from  intermittent 
fever  for  eight  entire  months,  does  no  credit  to  his  pro- 
fessional studies;  and  in  the  same  case  he  would  certainly 
have  bitterly  reproached  a patient  for  not  having  followed  in- 
structions in  regard  to  diet  and  mode  of  living.  Man  is  not 
always  dependent  upon  circumstances,  or  he  would  be  a mere 
machine.  My  dear  son  has  never  striven  with  himself,  and  it 
is  highly  improper  and  sinful  to  throw  the  responsibility  of 
his  not  having  done  so  upon  his  education  in  the  academy. 
Many  young  men  have  grown  up  in  this  institution  who  de- 
manded and  received  as  little  assistance,  and  they  are  now 
doing  well,  and  are  much  esteemed  and  provided  for.  How 
does  he  suppose  we  poor  parents  feel  when  we  reflect  that 
these  troubles  would  not  have  overtaken  him,  that  we  would 
have  been  spared  a thousand  cares  on  his  account,  and  that 
he  would  certainly  have  achieved  what  he  sought  if  he  had 
remained  here?  In  brief,  he  would  have  been  happier,  more 
contented,  and  more  useful  in  his  day  and  generation,  if  he 
had  been  satisfled  to  pursue  a medium  course  in  life,  and  had 
not  aspired  to  take  so  high  a flight.  Nor  is  it  necessary  that 
a superior  talent  should  be  made  manifest  outwardly,  at  least 
not  until  the  beneflts  accruing  from  its  exercise  can  be  shown 
and  proven,  and  it  can  be  said,  “ These  are  the  fruits  of  dili- 
gence and  intelligence.”  Pastor  Hahn  and  Pastor  Fulda  are 
both  great  men,  and  are  visited  by  all  travelling  scholars,  and 
yet  they  look  like  other  men.  As  for  the  three  hundred 
florins,  I must  say  that  this  demand  has  excited  my  great  dis- 
pleasure. I have  never  given  him  cause  to  think,  My  father 
can  and  will  rescue  me  when  I become  involved  in  difficulties.” 
And  he  knows  himself  that  I have  three  other  children,  none 
of  whom  are  provided  for,  and  from  whom  much  has  already 


18 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


been  withheld  on  his  account.  On  his  prospects,  hopes, 
plans,  and  promises,  I can  advance  nothing,  as  I have  already 
been  so  badly  deceived.  Even  if  it  were  p'^ssible  to  place 
some  faith  in  them,  I could  not  raise  the  money ; for,  although 
I am  known  as  an  honest  man,  my  financial  condition,  and 
the  amount  of  my  salary,  are  also  well  known ; and  it  is  evi- 
dent that  I would  not  be  able  to  pay  a debt  of  from  two  to 
three  hundred  fiorins  out  of  my  income.  I can  do  nothing 
but  pray  for  my  son ! His  faithful  father,  Schiller.  ’ * 

“Can  do  nothing  but  pray  and  scold,''  exclaimed  Schiller, 
emphatically.  “ There  you  see  what  an  unworthy,  trifling 
fellow  I am.  All  the  hopes  which  my  family  and  friends  en- 
tertained for  me,  yes,  which  I entertained  for  myself  and  my 
talents,  are  blighted,  dissolved  in  smoke  like  burning  straw. 
Nothing  real  is  left  but  the  burden  of  my  debts,  and  my  pov- 
erty. My  good  Oswald,  you  have  had  the  weakness  to  believe 
in  me,  and  to  accept  a draft  on  my  future.  To  your  own 
detriment,  you  must  now  perceive  that  this  draft  is  worthless, 
and  that  my  father  was  right  in  reproaching  me  for  having 
had  the  temerity  to  attempt  to  make  a German  poet  out  of  a 
Wurtemberg  regimental  surgeon." 

“Do  not  speak  so,  Frederick  Schiller,"  exclaimed  Streicher, 
indignantly.  “Your  words  are  blasphemous;  and  all  Ger- 
many would  be  angry  with  you  if  it  heard  them!" 

“ But  all  Germany  would  take  good  care  not  to  pay  my 
debts.  While  I,  in  holy  and  true  disinterestedness,  am  ready 
to  consecrate  my  whole  being  to  the  service  of  my  country, 
and  to  devote  all  the  powers  of  my  mind  and  talents  to  its 
benefit,  its  instruction  and  entertainment,  if  I should  demand 
of  the  German  nation  that  it  should  also  bring  me  an  offer- 
ing, that  each  individual  who  had  read  and  seen  my  tragedies 
should  give  me  a groschen,  each  one  would  deny  that  he  had 
ever  seen  or  read  them,  and,  with  a shrug  of  his  shoulders, 
would  turn  from  the  beggar  who  had  the  temerity  to  require 
any  thing  of  the  public  but  its  applause  and  its  momentary 

* “Bcliiller’s  Relatious  to  his  Tareuts  and  the  Walzojjen  Family,”  pp.  62-68. 


THE  TRIALS  OF  LIFE. 


19 


delight.  My  friends,  I am  - very  miseratJe;  for  you  must  know 
that  this  is  not  the  only  larg^  wMph  '^TOwhles'me.  There 
were  other  noble  souls  who,,  had.  conb>d.ence  in,  my  success,  and 
allowed  themselves  to  be  bribed  by  «‘The  ßpbbersi  ’ My  noble 
friend,  Madame  von  Wolzogen,  ,who  gave  the  homeless  one  an 
asylum  on  her  estate  in  Baue cbach,, "when  he  had  fled  from 
Ludwigsburg,  did  more  than  this.  When,  after  a sojourn  of 
seven  months  in  her  beautiful  Tusculum,  I marched  out  into 
the  world  again,  she  loaned  me  two  hundred  florins,  which 
I solemnly  promised  to  return  in  a year.  The  year  has  ex- 
pired, my  noble  friend  depends  on  this  sum  to  make  a 
necessary  payment  on  a mortgage  which  is  attached  to  her 
estate,  and  I am  not  able  to  keep  my  word.  I must  expect 
her  to  consider  me  a swindler  who  has  cheated  her  with 
empty  promises!’* 

“No,  Madame  von  Wolzogen  will  not  think  so,  for  she 
knows  you,”  exclaimed  Streicher,  indignantly. 

“She  will  be  as  far  from  thinking  so  as  I am,”  said  Oswald 
Schwelm,  gently.  “It  is  not  your  fault  that  you  are  in 
pecuniary  difiiculties;  the  blame  does  not  attach  to  you,  but 
to  the  German  public,  to  the  German  nation,  which  allows 
its  poets  to  suffer  want,  even  while  enraptured  with  their 
works.  The  German  people  are  prodigal  with  laurels  and 
wreaths,  but  cannot  be  taught  that  laurels  do  not  sustain  life, 
and  that  wreaths  are  of  no  avail  to  the  poet  if  they  do  not 
also  prepare  a home  for  him,  where  he  can  await  the  muses  at 
his  ease,  and  rest  on  his  laurels.  Ah,  Frederick  Schiller, 
when  I see  how  you,  one  of  the  noblest  of  poets,  are  tor- 
mented by  the  want  of  a paltry  sum  of  money,  my  eyes  All 
with  tears  of  compassion,  not  for  you,  but  for  the  German 
fatherland,  which  disowns  its  most  exalted  sons,  while  it 
worships  the  foreigner  and  gives  a warm  reception  to  every 
stranger  charlatan  who  condescends  to  come  and  pocket  Ger- 
man money  for  his  hackneyed  performances.” 

“No,  no,”  said  Schiller,  hastily.  “You  must  not  abuse 
and  condemn  the  object  of  my  highest  and  holiest  love.  As 


20 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


a true  son  never. reviles  Uis  mother^  ^ven  when  he  believes  that 
she  has  been  unjust  to  him^  the  true  son  of  Germany  must 
never  scold  his  sublime  mother but  must  love  her  tenderly 
and  endeariagly,  even  itßhe  sh(;^uld, accord  him  nothing  but  a 
cradle  and  a grave  As, we  say,  ‘what  God  does  is  well  done,’ 
we  must  also  say  vdiat  Geymania  does  is  well  done.  And  be- 
lieve me,  my  friends,  if  I truly  deserve  it,  and  if,  as  you  say, 
and  I hope,  I am  really  a poet,  the  German  fatherland  will 
smile  upon  me,  and  give  me  the  bread  of  life  for  the  manna 
of  poetry.  Men  will  not  let  him  die  of  hunger  to  whom  the 
gods  have  given  the  kiss  of  immortality.” 

“Amen,”  said  Streicher,  with  a slight  touch  of  derision. 

“Yes,  amen,”  repeated  Schiller,  smiling.  “It  was  well,^ 
friend  Oswald,  that  you  awakened  the  patriot  in  me  by  youi 
indignation  in  my  behalf,  for  the  patriot  has  helped  me  to 
overlook  my  little  earthly  necessities.  My  friends,  be  patient 
and  indulgent  with  me.  Better  times  are  coming,  and  if  I 
am  really  a poet  the  gods  will  take  pity  on  me,  and  a day  of 
recognition  and  renown  will  also  come ! To  be  sure,  I have 
nothing  to  offer  you  at  present  but  hope.  The  draft  on  the 
future  is  all  I can  give  you,  my  good  Oswald,  for  the  money 
you  loaned  me.” 

“This  draft  is,  in  my  eyes,  the  most  beautiful  coin,”  said 
Oswald  Schwelm,  heartily,  “ and  truly  it  is  not  your  fault  that 
my  hard-hearted  creditor  cannot  take  the  same  view  of  the 
matter,  but  demands  payment  for  the  publication  of  ‘The 
Bobbers.’  Well,  we  will  speak  of  it  no  more.  Forgive  me, 
Schiller,  for  having  caused  you  disquiet  by  coming  here. 
But,  as  I said  before,  I did  not  think  of  the  ingratitude  of  the 
German  fatherland,  but  only  of  the  German  poet  who  had 
given  it  ‘The  Bobbers,’  ‘Fiesco,’  and  ‘Louise  Müllerin;’  and 
I hoped  that  applause  had  made  him  rich.  Give  me  your 
hand,  Schiller,  and  let  us  say  farewell.” 

“And  what  will  you  do,  my  poor  friend?”  asked  Schiller, 
feelingly.  “ Will  you  return  to  Stuttgart,  where  the  hard- 
hearted creditor  awaits  you?” 


THE  TRIALS  OF  LIFE. 


21 


‘‘No,  no,”  answered  Oswald,  “I  will  not  return  to  Stutt- 
gart, for  the  warrant  of  arrest  would  hang  over  my  head  like 
the  sword  of  Damocles ! I will  go  to  Carlsruhe,  where  I have 
an  old  uncle,  and  will  endeavor  to  soften  his  heart.  Do  not 
trouble  yourself  about  me,  my  friend;  and  may  your  cheerful- 
ness and  the  creative  power  of  the  poet  not  for  a single  mo- 
ment be  darkened  by  the  remembrance  of  me!  We  prosaic 
sons  of  humanity  are  often  aided  by  accident,  and  find  some 
little  avenue  of  escape  from  the  embarrassments  of  life,  while 
you  poets  march  through  the  grand  portals  into  the  temple  of 
fame,  where  you  are  more  exposed  to  the  attacks  of  enemies. 
Farewell,  friend  Schiller,  and  may  great  Jupiter  ever  be  with 
you!” 

“ Adieu,  friend  Schwelm!”  said  Schiller,  extending  his  hand 
and  gazing  sadly  at  his  kind,  open  countenance.  “ You  as- 
sume to  be  gay,  in  order  to  hide  your  anxiety;  but  I see 
through  the  veil  which  friendship  and  the  goodness  of  your 
heart  have  prompted  you  to  assume,  and  behind  it  I detect 
a careworn,  anxious  look.  Oh,  my  friends,  I am  a poor  man, 
and  am  only  worthy  of  commiseration;  and  it  is  all  in  vain 
that  I endeavor  to  arm  myself  against  a knowledge  of  this 
fact.” 

“No,  you  are  a great  and  enviable  man,”  exclaimed  Strei- 
cher, with  enthusiasm.  “ Of  that  we  are  all  assured,  and  you 
also  shall  become  convinced  of  it.  You  are  ascending  the 
mountain  which  leads  to  renown,  and,  although  now  enveloped 
in  a cloud,  you  will  at  last  attain  the  heights  above,  and  be 
surrounded  with  a halo  of  sunshine  and  glory.” 

“I  wish,  my  friend,”  said  Schiller,  pointing  with  a sad 
smile  to  the  ashes  in  the  stove,  “ I wish  we  had  some  of  this 
sunshine  now,  and  were  not  compelled  to  warm  the  room 
with  such  expensive  coals.  But  patience,  patience ! You  are 
right,  Andrew,  I am  ascending  a mountain,  and  am  now  in  a 
cloud,  and  therefore  it  is  not  surprising  that  I feel  chilly  and 
uncomfortable.  But  better  times  are  coming,  and  my  health 
will  improve,  and  this  bad  cough  and  fever  will  no  longer  re- 


22 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


tard  my  footsteps,  and  I will  be  able  to  mount  aloft  to  the 
abode  of  the  gods  with  more  rapid  strides.  Farewell,  my 
friends!  My  writing-table  seems  to  regard  me  with  astonish- 
ment, as  if  asking  why  I have  not  brought  it  my  customary 
ovation.’' 

“Let  it  look  and  inquire,”  said  Streicher.  “You  must 
make  no  reply,  but  must  first  break  your  fast,  as  any  other 
honest  man  would  do.  Come  and  breakfast  with  us  at  the 
inn,  Frederick.  A man  must  eat,  and,  although  I unfor- 
tunately have  not  enough  money  to  satisfy  this  Cerberus  of  a 
creditor,  I have  at  least  enough  to  pay  for  a breakfast  and  a 
glass  of  wine  for  us  three.  Come,  Frederick,  get  yourself 
ready  quickly,  and  let  us  tread  the  earth  with  manly  footsteps, 
and  compel  it  to  recognize  us  as  its  lords.” 

“No,  you  good,  thoughtless  man  of  the  world,”  said  Schil- 
ler, smiling;  “no,  I must  remain  here!  I must  work  on  at 
‘Don  Carlos,’  who  gives  my  mind  no  rest  by  day  or  night,  and 
insists  on  being  completed!” 

“ But  promise  me,  at  least,  Fritz,  that  you  will  breakfast 
before  you  go  to  work?” 

“ I promise  you!  Now  go,  Andrew,  for  the  good  Schwelm 
is  already  holding  the  door  open,  and  waiting  for  you.” 


CHAPTEE  III. 

HENRIETTA  VON  WOLZOGEN. 

“ Breakfast,”  murmured  Schiller,  after  his  two  friends 
had  taken  leave  of  him.  “ Oh,  yes,  it  were  certainly  no  bad 
idea  to  indulge  in  a hot  cup  of  coffee  and  fresh  sweet  rolls. 
But  it  costs  too  much,  and  one  must  be  contented  if  one  can 
only  have  a cup  of  fresh  water  and  a piece  of  bread.” 

lie  stood  up  and  returned  to  the  chamber,  to  complete  the 
toilet  so  hastily  made  before,  to  adjust  his  hair,  and  put  on 


HENRIETTA  VON  WOLZOGEN. 


23 


the  sober,  well-worn  suit  which  constituted  alike  his  work- 
day and  holiday  attire. 

After  having  finished  his  toilet,  Schiller  took  the  pitcher, 
which  stood  on  a tin  waiter  by  the  side  of  a glass,  and 
bounded  gayly  down  the  stairway  into  the  large  courtyard  and 
to  the  fountain,  to  fill  his  pitcher  at  the  mouth  of  the  tragic 
mask  from  which  a stream  of  water  constantly  gushed. 

This  was  Schiller’s  first  morning  errand.  Every  morning 
the  people  in  the  house  could  see  the  pale,  thin  young  man 
go  to  the  fountain  with  his  pitcher ; and  it  amused  them  to 
watch  him  as  he  walked  up  and  down  the  yard  with  long 
strides,  looking  heavenward,  his  head  thrown  back,  and  his 
chest  expanded  with  the  fresh  morning  air,  which  he  inhaled 
in  long  draughts.  Then,  when  he  had  stretched  and  exer- 
cised his  limbs,  breathed  the  air,  and  looked  at  the  heavens, 
he  returned  to  the  fountain,  took  up  his  pitcher,  running 
over  with  water,  ran  into  the  house,  up  the  stairway,  and  re- 
entered his  dingy  little  room. 

But  he  brought  the  heavens  and  the  fresh  morning  air  with 
him,  and  his  soul  was  gladdened  and  strengthened  for  his 
poetic  labors. 

To-day  the  fresh  air  had  done  him  much  good ; and,  after 
he  had  drunk  his  first  glass  of  water,  and  eaten  his  bread  and 
butter,  which  he  took  from  a closet  in  the  wall,  he  looked 
pleased  and  comfortable ; a smile  glided  over  his  features,  and 
his  eyes  brightened. 

How  rich  is  he  who  has  few  wants,'*  he  said  softly  to  him- 
self, “ and  how  freely  the  spirit  soars  when  its  wings  are  un- 
encumbered with  the  vanities  of  life ! Come,  ye  Muses  and 
Graces,  keep  a loving  watch  around  my  table,  and  guide  my 
hand  that  I may  write  nothing  that  does  not  please  you!" 

He  threw  himself  on  the  chair  before  the  table,  took  up  his 
pen,  rapidly  read  what  he  had  last  written,  and  with  a few 
strokes  finished  the  last  great  scene  of  the  third  act  of  his  new 
tragedy,  ‘‘Don  Carlos." 


24 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


“Und  jetzt  verlaszt  mich!”*  recited  Schiller,  as  his  pen 
flew  over  the  paper;  and  then  he  continued,  in  a changed 
voice:  “Kann  ich  es  mit  einer  erfüllten  Hoffnung, — dann  ist 
dieser  Tag  der  schönste  meines  Lebens  1”  And  then  he  added, 
in  the  flrst  voice:  “ Er  ist  kein  verlorener  in  dem  meinigem!” 

“ Yes,”  exclaimed  Schiller,  in  a loud  voice,  as  he  threw  his 
pen  aside,  “ and  it  is  not  a lost  one  in  mine.  At  some  future 
day  I will  think  of  this  hour  with  joy  and  satisfaction — of  the 
hour  in  which  I wrote  the  closing  scene  of  the  third  act  of  a 
tragedy,  a dramatist’s  greatest  and  most  difficult  task.  Oh, 
ye  Muses  and  Graces,  whom  I invoked,  were  you  near  me, 
blessing  my  labors?  I laid  my  human  sacrifice  of  pain  and 
suffering  on  your  altar  this  morning,  and  my  poor  head  once 
more  received  the  baptism  of  tears.  Bless  me  with  your 
favor,  ye  Muses  and  Graces,  and  let  me  hope  that  the  tears  of 
the  man  were  the  baptism  of  the  poet!  Yes,  my  soul  per- 
suades me  that  I am  a poet ; and  this  new  work  will  attest  it 
before  the  world  and  mankind,  and — ” 

A cry  of  surprise  and  dismay  escaped  his  lips,  and  he  stared 
toward  the  door  which  had  just  been  opened,  and  in  which  a 
lady  appeared  who  was  completely  wrapped  up  in  furs,  and 
whose  face  was  entirely  shaded  by  a hood. 

“Madame  von  Wolzogen,”  he  exclaimed,  rising  quickly. 
“Is  it  possible?  Can  it  be  you?”  He  rushed  forward  and 
seized  her  hand,  and  when  he  encountered  her  mournful  gaze 
he  sank  on  his  knees  and  wept  bitterly. 

“ Oh,  my  friend,  my  mother,  that  we  should  meet  under 
such  circumstances!  That  I should  be  compelled  to  throw 
myself  at  your  feet  in  shame  and  penitence!” 

“And  why,  Schiller?”  asked  Madame  von  Wolzogen,  in  her 
soft,  kindly  voice.  “ Why  must  you  throw  yourself  at  my 
feet,  and  why  this  penitence?  Be  still.  Do  not  reply  yet, 

* Fraj^rrient  of  a dialogue  between  the  King  and  the  Marquis,  last  Scene,  Act 
III.,  of  “Don  Carlos:” 

“Kiny.  And  now  leave  me. 

“A/arrym«.  If  I can  do  so  with  an  accomplished  hope,  this  will  be  the  most  glo- 
rious day  of  my  life. 

Marquis.  It  is  no  lost  one  in  mine  I” 


HENRIETTA  VON  WOLZOGEN. 


25 


my  poor  child.  First,  hear  me ! My  only  reason  in  coming 
here  was  to  see  you.  It  seemed  impossible,  unnatural,  that  I 
should  pass  through  Mannheim  without  seeing  my  friend,  my 
son,  my  Frederick  Schiller!  My  sister,  who  lives  in  Meinin- 
gen, has  suddenly  fallen  ill,  and  has  called  me  to  her  bedside. 
Well,  I am  answering  her  call;  for  no  one  has  ever  appealed 
to  Henrietta  von  Wolzogen  in  vain.  I have  ridden  all  night, 
and  will  soon  resume  my  journey.  The  carriage  is  waiting 
for  me  at  the  corner.  I inquired  my  way  to  Schiller’s  dwell- 
ing; and  here  I am,  and  I wish  to  know,  Frederick  Schiller, 
what  this  silence  means,  and  why  you  have  not  written  to 
me  for  so  long  a time?  That  I must  know;  and  I am  only 
here  for  the  purpose  of  putting  this  one  question : Schiller, 
have  you  forgotten  your  friends  in  Bauerhach?  have  you  for- 
gotten me,  who  was  your  friend  and  your  mother?” 

“No,  no,”  he  cried,  rising  and  throwing  his  arms  tenderly 
around  Madame  von  Wolzogen ’s  neck,  and  pressing  her  to  his 
heart.  “ No,  how  could  I forget  your  goodness,  your  gener- 
osity, and  friendship?  But  can  you  not  comprehend,  my 
friend,  why  your  arrival  could  have  a terrible  effect  on  me — 
could  bring  me  to  the  verge  of  despair?” 

“ Only  see  how  the  poetic  flame  bursts  forth  when  we  pro- 
saic people  ask  a practical  question — when  we  have  to  remind 
poets  that,  unfortunately,  we  are  not  fed  upon  ambrosia  fall- 
ing from  heaven ! But  I imagined  that  my  wild  boy  would 
be  once  more  tearing  his  own  flesh,  and  terribly  dissatisfled 
with  his  destiny.  And  I am  here,  Schiller,  to  tell  you  that 
you  must  think  better  of  me  and  better  of  yourself,  and  not 
confound  noble  friendship  with  ignoble  gold,  which  shrewd 
people  call  the  mainspring  of  life,  but  which  is,  fortunately, 
not  the  mainspring  of  friendship,  and — ” 

“ Oh,  my  friend,  if  you  knew — ” 

“ Silence ! The  philippic  which  I had  time  to  prepare  at 
my  leisure  during  my  night  ride,  and  which  I am  determined 
to  inflict  upon  the  capricious  and  wayward  boy,  if  not  upon 
the  man,  is  not  yet  ended.  Is  it  possible  that  your  heart 


26 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


could  be  forgetful  of  and  untrue  to  the  past?  And  why? 
Because  his  poor  motherly  friend  has  written  him  in  confi- 
dence that  she  would  be  glad  if  he  would  return  at  least  a 
part  of  the  sum  of  money  she  had  loaned  him.  And  what  is 
his  reply?  Nothing,  nothing  at  all!  He  throws  his  friend’s 
letter  into  the  fire,  and — ’’ 

Into  the  fire  of  his  anguish,  of  his  reproaching  con- 
science,” interrupted  Schiller,  passionately.  “He  was  silent, 
because  it  wrung  his  heart  to  stand  even  for  a moment  in  the 
category  of  those  who  had  defrauded  you.  Oh,  my  dear 
friend,  toward  whom  I feel  drawn  as  a loving,  obedient  son, 
consider  in  your  sensitive  woman’s  heart  if  the  thought  of 
breaking  my  faith  and  becoming  a traitor  to  you  was  not  cal- 
culated to  drive  me  to  desperation ! Confiding  in  my 
honesty,  you  loaned  me  a considerable  sum  of  money,  the 
more  considerable  as  you  were  not  rich,  and  were  yourself 
compelled  to  borrow  the  money  from  a Jew.  I solemnly 
promised  to  return  the  borrowed  sum  within  the  course  of  a 
year.  The  year  has  expired,  the  Jew  urges  payment;  and 
now,  when  you  gently  remind  me  of  my  promise,  I feel  with 
shame  and  rage  that  I have  broken  my  word,  and  acted  dis- 
honorably toward  you;  and,  therefore — oh,  out  upon  con- 
temptible, cowardly  human  nature,  which  dares  not  look  its 
own  weakness  in  the  face! — and  therefore  I was  silent.  How 
often  did  my  heart  prompt  me,  in  my  distress  of  mind,  to  fiy 
to  your  friendship  for  relief ! but  the  painful  consciousness 
of  my  inability  to  comply  with  your  request  and  pay  my  debt, 
held  me  back.  My  powerlessness  to  meet  your  just  demand 
made  the  thought  of  you,  which  had  ever  been  a source  of 
joy,  a positive  torment.  Whenever  your  image  appeared,  the 
picture  of  my  misery  rose  up  before  me.  I feared  to  write  to 
you,  because  I had  nothing  to  write  but  the  eternal:  ‘Have 
patience  with  me!’  ” * 

He  laid  his  head  on  Madame  von  Wolzogen’s  lap  and 
sobbed;  but  with  gentle  force  she  compelled  him  to  rise. 


♦Bchiller’g  own  words.— See  “Schiller’s  Relations  to  Parents,**  etc.,  p.  450. 


HENEIETTA  VON  WOLZOGEN. 


27 


“ Stand  up,  Schiller ; hold  your  head  erect.  It  does  not 
beseem  you  to  despair  and  complain  like  other  poor,  suffering 
children  of  humanity.  You,  who  are  marching  upward  to 
Parnassus,  should  tread  under  foot  the  vermin  of  earthly 
cares.’' 

“ But  this  vermin  does  not  lie  at  my  feet,  but  is  in  my 
brain,  and  will  drive  me  mad  if  this  goes  on ! But  I must 
tell  you,  you  must  know  the  truth:  it  is  impossible  for  me  to 
pay  you  any  part  of  my  debt.  Oh,  it  is  hard  to  say  these 
words ; nevertheless,  I must  not  be  ashamed,  for  it  is  destiny. 
One  is  not  to  be  deemed  culpable  because  one  is  unfor- 
tunate.”  * 

“ And  one  is  not  unhappy  because  one  has  no  money,”  said 
Madame  von  Wolzogen,  smiling.  “ One  is  only  retarded  and 
checked,  like  the  fiery  young  steed,  impatient  to  bound  madly 
over  the  plain  and  dash  up  the  mountain,  but  prevented  by 
the  tightly-drawn  reins.  But,  my  friend,  this  need  cause 
you  no  unhappiness.  With  the  strength  of  brave  determi- 
nation, and  the  energy  of  creative  power,  you  will  break  the 
reins,  liberate  yourself,  and  soar  aloft.  Even  the  winged 
Pegasus  bears  restraint,  and  must  suffer  it ; but  the  poet,  who 
holds  and  guides  the  reins,  is  free — free  to  mount  aloft  on  his 
winged  steed.  And  as  he  soars  higher  and  higher,  the  earth, 
with  its  want  and  distress,  grows  less  and  less  distinct.  Then 
look  upward,  friend  Schiller,  upward  to  Parnassus,  where 
golden  renown  and  immortality  await  you!” 

‘‘  Words,  beautiful  words!”  exclaimed  Schiller.  “ Oh,  there 
was  a time  when  the  hope  of  renown  was  a source  of  as  intense 
delight  to  me  as  an  article  of  jewelry  is  to  a young  girl.  Now, 
I am  indifferent  to  every  thing.  I am  willing  to  serve  up  my 
laurels  in  the  next  ‘boeuf  ä la  mode,’  and  to  resign  my  tragic 
muse  to  your  dairy-maid,  if  you  keep  cows.f  How  pitiable 
is  a poet’s  renown,  compared  with  a happy  life!  And  I am  so 
unhappy  that  I would  willingly  exchange  all  my  expectations 

•Schiller’s  own  words.— See  “Relations  to  Parents,”  etc.,  p.  451. 

I’Ujid. , p.  416. 

3 


28 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


of  future  renown  for  a valid  check  for  one  hundred  thousand 
florins,  and — ” 

‘‘Be  silent!’’  exclaimed  Madame  von  Wolzogen,  imperi- 
ously. “ You  slander  yourself.  Thank  God,  these  utterances 
do  not  come  from  your  heart,  but  from  your  lips;  and  that 
the  blasphemies  which  anger  provokes  are  in  a language  known 
and  understood  only  by  your  fantasy,  and  not  by  your  mind ! 
I told  you  before,  that  it  did  not  beseem  you  to  grovel  in  the 
dust.  But  now  I say:  Down  on  your  knees,  Frederick 
Schiller,  on  your  knees,  and  pray  to  your  own  genius  for  for- 
giveness for  the  words  which  you  have  just  spoken.” 

“Forgiveness,”  groaned  Schiller,  falling  on  his  knees.  “ I 
beg  forgiveness  of  you,  my  friend,  my  mother.  I am  a crim- 
inal— am  like  Peter,  who  in  the  hour  of  trial  denied  his  Lord 
and  Saviour — and  reviled  that  which  is  greatest  and  holiest  on 
earth.  Be  indulgent,  have  patience  with  me ! Better  times 
will  come!  The  foaming  and  fomenting  juice  of  the  grape 
will  clear,  and  become  the  rich,  fiery  wine  which  refreshes 
and  makes  glad.  No,  I do  not  despair  of  my  future,  and  you 
who  love  me  shall  not  do  so  either,  and — ” 

“ We  do  not,”  said  Madame  von  Wolzogen,  smiling.  “ You 
are  a wonderful  man!  You  are  like  the  changing  skies  in 
storm  and  sunshine — first  threatening  clouds,  then  celestial 
blue;  before  anger  and  despair,  now  joy  and  hope.  And 
this,  my  dear  young  friend,  is  the  best  evidence  that  you  are 
truly  a poet ; and  if  you  had  not  known  it  already,  this  hour 
should  assure  you  of  the  fact.  I,  however,  Frederick  Schiller, 
have  never  doubted  either  your  genius  or  yourself;  and  I have 
come  to  tell  you  this,  and  dissipate  the  dark  cloud  that  was 
forming  between  two  friends. — No,  Frederick,  we  will  not 
permit  the  sun  of  our  friendship  to  be  darkened.  We  must 
bo  honest,  true,  and  sincere  to  one  another;  but  we  must  not 
be  silent  and  withhold  a word  of  sympathy  whenever  one  of 
us  cannot  grant  what  the  other  requires.  I know  that  you  are 
embarrassed  and  in  want;  and  notwithstanding  all  my  friend- 
ship, 1 cannot  aid  you.  You  know  that  the  Jew  Israel  de- 


HENRIETTA  VON  WOLZOGEN. 


29 


mands  the  sum  which  I borrowed  of  him;  and  it  is  not  in 
your  power  to  return  it,  although  it  is  very  inconvenient  for 
me,  and  very  painful  to  you.  But  shall  we,  because  we  are 
needy,  make  ourselves  poor  also?  Shall  we,  because  we  have 
no  money,  have  no  friendship  either?” 

‘‘No,  my  dear,  my  great,  my  good  lady,”  exclaimed  Schil- 
ler, his  countenance  radiant  with  joy.  No,  we  will 
strengthen  and  console  ourselves  with  friendship,  and  it  must 
compensate  us  for  all  else.  Oh,  how  poor  and  needy  one 
would  be  in  the  possession  of  millions,  without  love  and 
friendship!  I,  however,  am  rich,  for  I have  dear  friends — ” 

“ And  have,  perhaps,  besides  friends,  the  precious  treasure 
of  a sweetheart?  Oh,  Schiller,  how  very  prettily  you  blush, 
and  how  conscious  you  look.  In  love — once  more  in  love! 
But  in  love  with  whom,  my  poet,  with  one  or  with  two? 
And  is  the  dear  one’s  name  Margaret,  or  Charlotte,  or  Laura, 
or — ” 

“Enough,  enough,”  cried  Schiller,  laughing,  “the  dear 
one’s  name  is  Love,  and  I seek  her  everywhere,  and  think  I 
find  her  in  every  noble  and  beautiful  female  face  that  wears 
the  smile  of  innocence  and  the  dignity  of  beauty,  that  meets 
my  gaze.  My  heart  is  thrown  open  to  permit  Love  to  enter 
as  a victorious  queen,  and  take  possession  of  the  throne  of 
beauty  which  I have  erected  in  its  sanctuary  at  the  side  of 
the  altar  of  friendship,  on  which  you  reign  supreme,  my  dear 
Madame  Wolzogen,  my  second  mother!  Ah,  how  I thank 
you  for  having  come!  Your  loving  hand  has  removed  from 
my  soul  the  load  of  shame  and  humiliation,  and  I once  more 
feel  light  and  free ; and  I can  now  speak  to  you  about  these 
disagreeable  money  matters  with  calmness.  No,  no,  do  not 
forbid  me,  my  dear  lady,  but  let  me  speak  on.  Listen!  I 
have  been  sick  throughout  almost  the  entire  past  year. 
Gnawing  disquiet  and  uncertainty  in  regard  to  my  prospects 
have  retarded  my  recovery.  This  alone  is  the  reason  why  so 
many  of  my  plans  have  miscarried,  and  I have  not  been  able 
to  work  and  earn  as  much  as  I hoped.  But  I have  now 


30 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


marked  out  my  future  course  after  mature  consideration. 
And,  if  I am  not  disturbed  on  my  way,  my  future  is  secured. 
I am  putting  my  affairs  in  order  and  will  soon  be  in  a con- 
dition to  pay  all  my  debts.  I only  require  a little  time,  until 
my  plans  begin  to  work.  If  I am  hampered  now,  I am  ham- 
pered forever.  This  week  I will  commence  editing  a journal, 
the  Rhenish  Thalia,  It  will  be  published  by  subscription; 
and  a helping  hand  has  been  extended  to  me  from  many 
places.  The  journal  will  be  a success,  and  I shall  derive  from 
it  a certain  income  which  will  be  sufficient  for  my  support. 
From  the  proceeds  of  my  theatrical  pieces  I shall  be  able  to 
pay  off  my  debts  by  degrees,  and  above  all,  my  debt  to  you, 
my  friend.  I solemnly  promise  to  pay  you  the  entire  amount, 
in  instalments,  by  the  end  of  next  year,  and  I will  make  out 
three  drafts  which  shall  certainly  be  honored  when  due.  Do 
not  smile  incredulously,  my  dear  lady,  but  depend  upon  my 
assurances.  I am  certain  that  God  will  give  me  health  to 
attain  this  noble  aim.’'  * 

“My  friend,”  said  Madame  Wolzogen,  with  emotion,  “may 
God  give  you  health  and  strength,  not  to  enable  you  to  pay 
this  little  debt,  but  to  enable  you  to  pay  the  great  debt  you 
owe  the  world ! For  the  world  requires  of  you  that  you  use 
the  great  capital  of  poetry  and  mind  with  which  God  has  in- 
trusted you,  as  the  talent  which  shall  bear  interest  to  the  joy 
of  mankind  and  your  own  honor  and  renown.  It  is  a high 
and  difficult  calling  for  which  God  has  chosen  you.  You 
must  march  in  advance  of  humanity  as  its  poet  and  priest, 
proclaiming  and  sympathizing  with  its  sorrows  and  sufferings, 
and  awakening  that  enthusiasm  which  leads  to  action  and 
promotes  happiness.  Ever  keep  your  noble  ends  in  view,  my 
friend,  and  when  the  little  cares  of  life  annoy  you,  disregard 
them,  as  the  lion  does  the  insects  that  fly  around  his  head, 
and  which  he  could  destroy  with  a single  blow  of  his  paw,  did 
he  deem  it  worth  the  trouble.  And  now  that  we  have  come 
to  an  understanding,  and  know  what  we  are  and  intend  to 

♦Schiller’s  own  words.— See  “Relations  to  Parents,”  etc.,  p.  45*. 


HENRIETTA  VON  WOLZOGEN. 


31 


remain  to  each  other,  and  as  my  time  has  expired,  I must 
leave  you,  for  my  sister  is  awaiting  me.  Farewell,  Frederick ! 
Give  me  your  hand  once  more,  and  now,  hand  in  hand,  let  us 
vow  true  friendship,  that  friendship  which  is  never  dumb, 
but  imparts  to  the  sister  soul  its  joys  and  sorrows.” 

“So  let  it  be,”  said  Schiller,  earnestly.  “In  joy  and  in 
sorrow  I will  ever  turn  to  you,  my  friend,  and  second  mother ; 
and  I now  beg  you  never  to  doubt  me.  You  were,  are  now, 
and  always  will  be,  equally  dear  to  my  heart.  I can  never 
be  faithless  to  you,  although  circumstances  and  fate  might 
make  me  appear  so  outwardly.  Never  withdraw  your  love 
from  me.  You  must  and  will  learn  to  know  me  well,  and 
you  will  then,  perhaps,  love  me  a little  better.  Let  nothing 
impair  a friendship  so  pure,  sealed  under  the  eye  of  God.* 
And  be  assured  I will  always  love  you  with  the  tenderness 
of  a son,  although  you  would  not  permit  me  to  become  your 
son.  I do  not  reproach  you,  because  I knew  you  were  right. 
I am  at  the  starting-point  of  my  career,  and  dare  not  yet 
stretch  out  my  hand  after  the  woman  I love!” 

Henrietta  von  Wolzogen  laid  her  hand  on  Schiller’s  shoul- 
der and  looked  smilingly  into  his  large  blue  eyes. 

“ After  the  woman  you  love?”  she  whispered.  “ You,  dear 
boy,  admit  that  the  woman  you  love  has  not  yet  been  found, 
and  that  for  the  present  your  heart  is  playing  blind-man’s- 
buff  with  all  the  pretty  young  women?  For  instance,  my 
daughter  Charlotte  is  almost  forgotten,  because  the  beautiful 
Madame  Vischerin  has  such  lovely  eyes  and  converses  so 
agreeably.  Then  we  have  Margaret  Schwan,  who  Schiller 
would  now  certainly  love  to  the  exclusion  of  all  others,  if,  for- 
tunately or  unfortunately,  Madame  Charlotte  von  Kalb  had 
not  been  sojourning  in  Mannheim  for  the  last  few  weeks. 
She  is  certainly  not  exactly  beautiful,  but  then  she  has  such 
eyes ; eyes  that  glow  like  a crater  of  passion,  and  her  words 
are  flaming  rockets  of  enthusiasm.  This,  of  course,  charms 

* Schiller’s  own  words  to  Henrietta  von  Wolzogen. —See  “Relations, ’’etc.,  p. 
452. 


32 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


the  young  poet ; he  stands  hesitating  between  Margaret  and 
Charlotte;  and  will  at  last,  because  he  does  not  know  whether 
to  turn  to  the  right  or  to  the  left,  walk  straight  on,  and  look 
farther  for  the  lady  of  his  love.  Farewell,  Schiller,  you  faith- 
ful friend,  you  faithful  lover!  Farewell!” 

And  waving  her  hand  as  a last  adieu,  Madame  von  Wol- 
zogen  left  the  room.  Schiller  cast  a confused  and  troubled 
look  after  her. 

“Can  she  be  right?”  he  murmured.  “Have  I really  a 
heart  that  only  seizes  upon  an  object  to  relax  its  hold  again? 
Where  is  the  solution  of  this  enigma?  Have  I ever  loved, 
and  is  my  heart  so  fickle  that  it  can  hold  fast  to  nothing?” 

He  walked  to  and  fro  in  his  little  room  with  great  strides, 
his  brow  clouded  and  his  eyes  looking  inward,  endeavoring  to 
unravel  the  mysteries  of  his  heart. 

“No,”  he  said,  after  a pause.  “No,  I am  not  fickle.  To 
her  who  loved  me  I would  hold  firmly  in  love  for  ever  and 
ever.  But  here  is  the  difficulty!  I have  never  found  a 
woman  who  could  or  would  love  me.  My  heart  longs  for  this 
sweet  interchange  of  thought;  and  new  sources  of  happiness 
and  enthusiasm  would  be  opened  to  me  if  this  ardently- 
wished-for  woman  would  but  appear!  It  seems  the  poor, 
ugly,  and  awkward  Frederick  Schiller  is  not  worthy  of  such 
happiness,  and  must  be  contented  with  having  had  a modest 
view  of  love  in  the  distance,  like  Moses  of  the  promised  land, 
without  ever  having  entered  its  holy  temple.” 

With  a sigh,  Schiller  threw  himself  in  the  chair  before  the 
table  and  covered  his  quivering  face  with  his  hands.  But  he 
soon  let  them  fall,  and  shook  his  head  with  an  energetic 
movement. 

“Away  with  sensitiveness!”  said  he,  almost  angrily,  “I 
must  accustom  myself  to  be  happy  on  earth  without  happi- 
ness. And  if  I have  no  sweetheart,  I have  friends  who  love 
me,  and  the  friendship  of  a noble  soul  can  well  console  me 
for  the  denied  love  of  a perhaps  fickle  heart.  For  he  who  can 
call  but  one  soul  on  earth  his  friend  is  blessed,  and  sits  at  the 


JOY  AND  SORROW. 


33 


round-table  of  the  gods.  My  poor  Posa,  I will  learn  from 
you,  and  will  infuse  into  you  my  own  feelings.  You  had  but 
one  friend  on  earth,  and  the  love  you  could  give  to  no  woman 
you  bestowed  upon  humanity,  upon  your  people.  I also  will 
open  my  heart  to  humanity,  and  one  woman  I will  love  above 
all  others,  and  her  name  shall  be  Germania ! I will  serve  her, 
and  belong  to  her,  and  love  her  as  long  as  I live.  Hear  my 
vow,  ye  Muses  and  gods!  Germania  is  my  love.  I will  be 
her  poet  and  her  servant;  on  bended  knees  I will  worship 
her ; I will  raise  her  to  the  skies,  and  never  falter  in  my  de- 
votion, for  to  her  belong  the  holiest  impulses  of  heart  and 
soul  alike.  And  now,  Frederick  Schiller,  be  resolute,  be 
strong  and  joyful.  You  are  Germania’s  lover  and  her  son. 
Determine  to  do  what  is  good  and  great,  throughout  your  life- 
time, to  her  honor  and  renown ! Take  up  the  pen,  Frederick 
Schiller!  The  pen  is  the  sword  with  which  you  must  fight 
and  conquer!’' 

He  took  the  pen  and  held  it  aloft ; his  eyes  sparkled  with 
enthusiasm,  and  on  his  smiling  lips  a silent  prayer  trembled. 

The  deep  silence  was  again  unbroken,  save  by  the  rustling 
of  the  pen  as  it  glided  over  the  paper.  The  Muses  gathered 
round  the  poet  and  smiled  on  his  labors. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

JOY  AKD  SOKKOW. 

How  long  he  had  sat  there  and  written  he  knew  not,  he 
only  knew  that  these  had  been  happy  moments  of  action  and 
creation ; that  his  heart  had  been  full  of  bliss  and  his  soul 
overflowing  with  enthusiasm,  and  that  this  high  thought  had 
found  expression  in  words.  He  felt  that,  like  a god,  he  was 
creating  human  beings  who  lived,  moved,  and  suffered  before 
him.  But  alas!  he  was  doomed  to  descend  from  the  serene 
heights  of  poetry  to  the  dusty  earth ; the  cares  of  life  were 
about  to  recall  him  from  the  bright  sphere  of  poetical  visions 


34 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


His  door  was  violently  thrown  open,  and  Oswald  Schwelm 
rushed  in,  pale  and  breathless. 

“Help  me,  for  God’s  sake,  Schiller!  Hide  me!  I have 
recognized  him!  He  has  just  turned  into  this  street,  followed 
by  two  constables.” 

“ Who?  Of  whom  do  you  speak?  Who  pursues  you?”  ex- 
claimed Schiller,  bounding  from  his  seat. 

“ The  hard-hearted  creditor  from  Stuttgart.  Some  one  has 
advised  him  that  I have  come  to  Mannheim,  and  he  has  fol- 
lowed me  with  his  warrant,  determined  to  arrest  me  here.  Of 
this  I felt  assured  when  I saw  him  accompanied  by  the  two 
constables:  but,  hoping  that  I had  not  been  perceived,  I ran 
hastily  to  your  room,  and  now,  Schiller,  I implore  you  to  res- 
cue me  from  my  pursuers,  from  my  unmerciful  creditor ; to 
preserve  my  freedom  and  protect  me  from  arrest.” 

“That  I will  do,”  said  Schiller,  with  an  air  of  determi- 
nation and  defiance : and  he  stood  erect  and  held  up  his  hand 
as  if  threatening  the  invisible  enemy.  “ You  shall  sulfer  no 
more  on  my  account ; you  shall  not  be  robbed  of  your  freedom.  ” 

“ Be  still,  my  friend ! I think  I hear  steps  and  whispering 
voices  outside  the  door.  Hide  me!  for  God’s  sake,  hide  me, 
or — ” 

Too  late!  too  late!  The  door  is  opened  and  the  cruel 
creditor  enters,  accompanied  by  two  constables. 

Schiller  uttered  a cry  of  rage,  sprang  like  a chafed  lion  at 
the  intruder,  caught  hold  of  him,  shook  him,  and  pressed  him 
back  to  the  door. 

“ What  brings  you  here,  sir?  How  can  you  justify  this  in« 
trusion?  how  dare  you  cross  this  threshold  without  my  per« 
mission?” 

To  the  stormy  questions  addressed  to  him  by  Schiller,  with 
a threatening  look  and  knitted  brow,  the  man  replied  by  a 
mute  gesture  toward  the  two  constables,  who,  with  a grave 
official  air,  were  walking  toward  Oswald  Schwelm,  who  had 
retired  to  the  fartliest  corner  of  the  room. 

“ Mr.  ( )swald  Schwelm,  we  arrest  you  in  the  name  of  the 


JOY  AND  SORROW. 


35 


Superior  Court  of  Mannheim,  by  virtue  of  this  warrant,  made 
out  by  the  judicial  authorities  in  Stuttgart;  and  transferred, 
at  the  request  of  Mr.  Richard,  to  the  jurisdiction  of  the  au- 
thorities in  Mannheim.  By  virtue  of  the  laws  of  this  city  we 
command  you  to  follow  us  without  offering  any  resistance 
whatsoever. 

“You  have  heard  it,  Mr.  Schiller,”  said  the  printer  Rich- 
ard, emphatically  . “ I have  a perfect  right  to  enter  this  room 

to  arrest  my  debtor.” 

“No,  bloodsucker!”  cried  Schiller,  stamping  the  floor  with 
his  foot.  “ No,  you  have  not  the  right.  You  are  a barbar- 
ian, for  you  desire  to  deprive  a man  of  his  liberty  of  whom 
you  know  that  he  owes  you  nothing!” 

“ He  made  himself  responsible  for  the  payment  of  a sum  of 
three  hundred  florins;  the  sum  is  due,  and  Mr.  Schwelm 
must  either  pay  or  go  to  prison.” 

“ God  help  me!”  cried  Schiller,  trembling  with  anger,  and 
deathly  pale  with  agitation.  “ Give  me  patience  that  I may 
not  crush  this  monster  in  my  righteous  indignation.  I will 
be  calm  and  humble,  I will  beg  and  implore,  for  something 
high  and  noble  is  at  stake,  the  liberty  of  a man ! Be  tran- 
quil, friend  Schwelm ; this  man  shall  not  carry  out  his  base 
intention,  he  shall  not  arrest  you  here  in  my  room.  This 
room  is  my  house,  my  castle,  and  no  one  shall  violate  its 
sanctity.  Out  with  you,  you  cruel  creditor,  ye  minions  of 
the  law!  You  can  stand  before  my  door  and  await  your  prey 
like  blood-hounds,  but  you  shall  not  lay  hands  on  this  noble 
game  until  it  leaves  this  sanctuary  and  crosses  this  threshold. 
Out  with  you,  I say!  If  you  love  life,  leave  quickly.  Do  you 
not  see  that  I am  fllled  with  the  holy  wrath  of  outraged  hu- 
manity? Do  you  not  feel  that  my  hands  will  destroy  you  if 
you  do  not  go,  and  go  instantly?” 

He  threw  up  his  arms,  and  clinched  his  flsts;  and,  his  eyes 
flaming,  and  his  angry  countenance  beautiful  with  inward 
agitation,  he  was  about  to  rush  upon  the  men  who  had  taken 
hold  of  Oswald  Schwelm,  and  now  looked  on  in  confusion 


36 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


and  terror.  But  Oswald  Schwelm  had,  in  the  mean  while, 
liberated  himself  from  their  grasp,  and  now  seized  Schiller’s 
arm  and  held  him  back,  gently  entreating  him  to  let  the  law 
take  its  course  and  leave  him  to  his  fate.  He  then  turned  to 
the  officers  and  begged  them  to  forget  Mr.  Schiller’s  offensive 
words,  uttered  in  anger ; he  admitted  that  they  were  perfectly 
in  the  right,  and  he  was  ready  to  yield  to  stern  necessity  and 
accompany  them. 

As  Oswald  Schwelm  approached  the  door,  Schiller  thrust 
him  back,  exclaiming  in  loud  and  threatening  tones:  “I 
will  permit  no  one  to  pass  this  threshold.  If  you  will  not 
leave  without  him,  you  shall  all  remain  here ; and  my  room, 
the  room  of  a German  poet,  shall  be  the  prison  of  the  noble 
German  man,  who  is  guilty  of  nothing  but — ” 

“ But  not  having  paid  the  money  he  owes  me,”  interposed 
Mr.  Eichard,  the  money  which  he  should  have  paid  a year 
ago.  Since  then  he  has  been  continually  putting  me  ofi  with 
empty  promises  and  evasions.  I am  tired  of  all  this,  will  put 
up  with  it  no  longer,  and  am  determined  to  resort  to  extreme 
measures.  Officers  of  the  law,  do  your  duty,  arrest  this  man, 
and  pay  no  attention  to  the  boastful  words  of  Mr.  Schiller. 
He  is  a poet,  and  poets  are  not  so  particular  in  their  words. 
One  must  just  let  them  talk  on  without  heeding  what  they 
say!  Forward  now,  forward!” 

“No,  no,  Oswald,”  cried  Schiller,  trembling  with  anger. 
“ Come  to  me,  Oswald,  hold  fast  to  me.  They  shall  never 
tear  you  from  my  side.  No,  never! — no,  never!” 

“ What  is  going  on  here,  who  uttered  that  cry?”  asked  a 
loud,  manly  voice,  and  the  broad,  well-conditioned  body  of  a 
man  who  was  plainly  dressed,  and  whose  face  wore  an  expres- 
sion of  good-nature  and  kindliness,  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

“Herr  Hölzcl,”  exclaimed  Schiller,  with  relief.  “My 
landlord,  God  sends  you  to  our  aid!” 

“ What’s  the  matter?  What  can  I do?”  asked  Hölzel.  “ I 
came  down  from  tlic  floor  above,  and  in  passing  your  door 
1 heard  a noise  and  disturbance,  and  my  Mr.  Schiller  cry 


JOY  AND  SORROW. 


37 


out.  ‘Well,’  thinks  I,  ‘I  must  go  in  and  see  what’s  going 
on.’ 

“ And  I will  reply — I will  tell  you  what  is  going  on,  my 
dear  Hölzel,”  said  Schiller,  with  flashing  eyes.  “We  have 
here  an  unmerciful  creditor  and  rude  minions  of  the  law,  who 
dare  to  enter  my  room  in  pursuit  of  a friend  who  has  fled  to 
me  from  Stuttgart  for  help;  to  me  who  am  the  miserable 
cause  of  all  his  misfortunes.  Good  Oswald  Schwelm  pledged 
himself  to  make  good  the  payment  of  three  hundred  florins 
to  the  printer  who  printed  my  first  work,  ‘ The  Robbers.  ’ At 
that  time  we  anticipated  brilliant  success;  we  dreamed  that 
‘The  Robbers’  was  a golden  seed  from  which  a rich  harvest 
would  be  gathered.  We  have  erred,  and  my  poor  friend  here 
is  now  called  upon  to  pay  for  his  error  with  his  freedom.’’ 

“But  he  shall  not,”  said  Mr.  Hölzel,  with  vivacity,  as  he 
laid  his  broad  hand  on  Schiller’s  shoulder.  “ I will  not  suffer 
it;  your  good  friend  shall  have  made  no  miscalculations. 
Now,  Mr.  Schiller,  you  know  very  well  how  fond  I am  of  ‘The 
Robbers,  ’ and  that  I see  the  piece  whenever  it  is  given  here 
in  Mannheim,  and  cry  my  eyes  out  over  Iffland,  when  he  does 
Charles  Moor  so  beautifully ; and  I so  much  admire  those  fine 
fellows  the  robbers,  and  Spiegelberg,  who  loves  his  captain 
dearly  enough  to  die  for  him  a thousand  times.  I will  show 
you,  Schiller,  that  I have  learned  something  from  the  noble 
Spiegelberg,  and  that  the  high-minded  robber  captain  is  my 
model.  I am  not  rich,  certainly,  and  cannot  do  as  he  did 
when  his  money  gave  out,  and  take  it  forcibly  from  the  rich 
on  the  public  highways,  but  I can  scrape  together  funds 
enough  to  help  a good  man  out  of  trouble,  and  do  a service  to 
the  author  of  ‘The  Robbers!’  ” 

“What  do  you  say,  my  friend?  What  is  it  you  will  do?” 
asked  Schiller,  joyfully. 

“With  your  permission,  I will  lend  Mr.  Schwelm,  with 
whose  family  in  Stuttgart  I am  well  acquainted,  and  who,  I 
know,  will  repay  me,  the  sum  of  three  hundred  florins  for  two 
years,  at  the  usual  rate  of  interest — that  is,  if  he  will  accept  it.” 


38 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


“I  will  accept  it  with  pleasure,”  said  Oswald  Schwelm, 
heartily  grasping  Hölzel’s  proffered  hand.  “Yes,  I accept 
the  money  with  joy,  and  I give  you  my  word  of  honor  that  I 
will  return  it  at  the  expiration  of  that  time.” 

“I  believe  you,”  said  Hölzel,  cordially,  “for  he  who  pro- 
moted the  publication  of  ‘The  Robbers’  by  giving  his  money 
for  that  purpose,  is  surely  too  good  and  too  noble  to  defraud 
his  fellow-man.  Come  down  into  my  office  with  me.  Busi- 
ness should  be  done  in  an  orderly  manner,”  said  he,  as  he 
laughingly  surveyed  the  room,  in  which  nothing  was  in  its 
proper  place,  but  every  thing  thrown  around  in  the  greatest 
disorder.  “ Things  are  not  exactly  orderly  here;  and  I don’t 
believe  there  would  be  room  enough  on  that  table  to  count 
out  the  three  hundred  florins.” 

“Very  true,”  said  Schiller,  smiling.  “But  you  must  also 
consider,  Hölzel,  that  the  table  has  never  had  occasion  to 
prepare  itself  for  the  reception  of  three  hundred  florins.” 

“ I,  unfortunately,  know  very  well  that  the  managers  of 
the  theatres  do  not  pay  the  poet  as  they  should,”  said  Hölzel, 
contemptuously.  “ They  pay  him  but  a paltry  sum  for  his 
magniflcent  works.  Tell  me,  Schiller,  is  what  Mr.  Schwan 
told  me  yesterday  true;  did  the  Manager  von  Thalberg  really 
give  you  but  eight  louis  d’ors  for  your  tragedy,  ‘Fiesco?’  ” 

“ Yes,  it  is  true,  Hölzel,  and  I can  assure  you  that  this 
table,  for  my  three  tragedies,  has  not  yet  groaned  under  the 
weight  of  three  hundred  florins.  And  this  may  in  some  meas- 
ure excuse  me  in  your  eyes  for  what  has  occurred.” 

“No  excuse  is  necessary,”  said  Hölzel,  good-humoredly. 
“ Come,  gentlemen,  let  us  go  down  and  attend  to  our  business. 
Above  all  things,  Mr.  Printer-of-the-Eobbers,  send  your  con- 
stables away.  They  have  nothing  more  to  do  here,  and  only 
offend  the  eye  with  their  presence.  And  now  we  will  count 
out  the  money,  and  satisfy  the  warrant.” 

“ And  make  out  a note  of  indebtedness  to  you,  you  worthy 
helper  in  time  of  trouble,”  said  Oswald  Schwelm,  as  he  fob 
lowed  the  printer  and  constables  out  of  the  room. 


JOY  AND  SORROW. 


39 


Schiller  was  also  about  to  follow,  but  Hölzel  gently  pushed 
him  back.  “ It  is  not  necessary  for  you  to  accompany  us, 
Mr.  Schiller.  What  has  the  poet  to  do  with  such  matters, 
and  why  should  you  waste  your  precious  time?  We  can  at- 
tend to  our  money  matters  without  you ; and  I am  not  willing 
that  this  harpy  of  a printer  should  any  longer  remain  in  your 
presence.” 

“My  dear  friend,”  exclaimed  Schiller,  with  emotion, 
“ what  a kind,  noble  fellow  you  are,  and  how  well  it  becomes 
you  to  do  good  and  generous  actions  in  this  simple,  unosten- 
tatious manner!  You  have  freed  me  from  a heavy  burden 
to-day,  and  relieved  my  soul  of  much  care ; and  if  my  next 
drama  succeeds  well,  you  can  say  to  yourself  that  you  are  the 
cause,  and  that  you  have  helped  me  in  my  work!” 

“ Great  help,  indeed,”  laughed  the  architect.  “ I can  build 
a pretty  good  house,  but  of  your  theatrical  pieces  I know 
nothing  at  all ; and  no  one  would  believe  me  if  I should  say  I 
had  helped  Frederick  Schiller  in  his  tragedies.  Nor  is  it 
necessary  that  they  should.  Only  keep  a kind  remembrance 
of  me  in  your  heart,  that  is  renown  enough  for  me,  although 
men  should  hear  nothing  about  the  poor  architect,  Hölzel.” 

“My  friend,”  said  Schiller,  in  an  earnest,  solemn  voice,  “if 
I am  really  a poet,  and  the  German  nation  at  some  future  day 
recognizes,  loves,  and  honors  me  as  such,  you  also  will  not  be 
forgotten,  and  men  will  keep  your  name  in  good  remem- 
brance ; for  what  a good  man  does  in  love  and  kindness  to  a 
poet,  is  not  lost.  Children  and  grandchildren  will  praise  his 
good  action,  as  if  he  had  done  it  to  themselves,  and  will  call 
him  the  nation’s  benefactor,  because  he  was  the  poet’s  bene- 
factor. May  this  be  your  reward,  my  friend!  I wish  this 
for  your  sake  and  for  my  own.  And  now  go,  for  my  heart  is 
filled  with  tears,  and  I feel  them  rushing  to  my  eyes!” 

Hölzel  had  already  passed  out,  and  gently  closed  the  door, 
and  did  not  hear  these  last  words.  No  one  saw  Schiller’s 
gushing  tears;  no  one  heard  the  sobs  which  escaped  his  breast; 
no  one  witnessed  the  struggle  with  himself,  with  the  humili- 


40 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


ations,  sorrows,  and  distress  of  life ; no  ear  heard  him  com- 
plain sadly  of  want  and  poverty,  the  only  inheritance  of  the 
German  poet! 

But  Frederick  Schiller’s  soul  of  fire  soon  rose  above  such 
considerations.  His  glance,  which  had  before  been  tearfully 
directed  to  the  present,  now  pierced  the  future ; and  he  saw 
on  the  distant  heights,  on  the  temple  of  renown,  inscribed  in 
golden  letters,  the  name  Frederick  Schiller. 

“I  am  a poet,”  he  cried,  exultingly,  “and  more  ‘by  the 
grace  of  God’  than  kings  or  princes  are.  If  earth  belongs  to 
them,  heaven  is  mine.  While  they  are  regaled  at  golden 
tables,  I am  feasted  at  the  table  of  the  gods  with  ambrosia 
and  nectar ! What  matter,  if  poets  are  beggars  on  earth — if 
they  are  not  possessed  of  riches?  They  should  not  complain. 
Have  they  not  the  God-given  capital  of  mind  and  poetry  in- 
trusted to  them,  that  it  may  bear  interest  in  their  works? 
And,  though  the  man  must  sometimes  hunger,  a bountiful 
repast  awaits  the  poet  on  the  heights  of  Olympus!  With  this 
thought  I will  console  myself,”  he  added,  in  a loud  voice, 
“ and  will  proclaim  it  to  others  for  their  consolation.  I will 
write  a poem  on  this  subject,  and  its  name  shall  be,  ‘The 
Partition  of  the  Earth!’  ” 

He  walked  to  the  table,  and  noted  this  title  in  his  diary 
with  a few  hasty  strokes  of  the  pen. 

He  now  wished  to  return  to  his  tragedy.  But  the  Muses^ 
had  been  driven  from  this  consecrated  ground  by  discordant 
earthly  sounds,  and  were  now  not  disposed  to  return  at  his 
bidding,  and  the  poet’s  thoughts  lacked  buoyancy  and 
enthusiasm. 

“ It  is  useless,”  exclaimed  Schiller,  throwing  his  pen  aside. 
“ The  tears  wrung  from  my  heart  by  earthly  sorrow  have  ex- 
tinguished the  lieavenly  fire,  and  all  is  cold  within  me! 
Where  sliall  I find  tlie  holy,  soul-kindling  spark?” 

“ Jn  her,”  responded  a voice  in  his  heart.  “In  Charlotte 
von  Kalb!  Yes,  this  fair  young  woman,  this  impassioned 
soul  will  again  enliven  and  inspire  me.  She  understands 


CHARLOTTE  VON  KALB. 


41 


poetry ; and  all  that  is  truly  beautiful  and  great  finds  an  echo 
in  her  heart.  I will  go  to  Charlotte ! I will  read  her  the 
first  two  acts  of  my  ‘Carlos,’  and  her  delight  will  kindle  anew 
the  fire  of  enthusiasm.” 

He  hastily  rolled  up  his  manuscript,  and  took  down  his 
hat.  He  cast  no  look  at  the  dusty,  dingy  little  mirror 
fastened  to  the  window-frame.  No  brush  touched  his  dis- 
hevelled hair,  or  removed  the  dust  and  stains  from  his  dress. 
It  never  occurred  to  the  poet  to  think  of  his  outward  appear- 
ance. What  cared  he  for  outward  appearances — he  who 
occupied  himself  exclusively  with  the  mind?  He  rushed  out 
of  the  house,  and  through  the  streets  of  the  little  city.  The 
people  he  met  greeted  him  with  reverence,  and  stood  still  to 
look  after  the  tall,  thin  figure  of  the  poet.  He  neither  saw 
nor  heeded  them.  His  eyes  were  upturned,  and  his  thoughts 
fiew  on  in  advance  of  him  to  Charlotte — to  the  impassioned, 
enthusiastic  young  woman. 

Does  her  heart  forebode  the  poet’s  coming?  Does  the  se- 
cret sympathy  which  links  souls  together,  whisper:  “Char- 
lotte von  Kalb,  Frederick  Schiller  approaches?” 


CHAPTER  V. 

CHAKLOTTE  YON  KALB. 

She  was  sitting  at  the  window  of  the  handsomely-furnished 
room  which  she  used  as  a parlor.  She  had  just  completed  her 
elegant  and  tasteful  toilet ; and  when  the  mirror  reflected  the 
image  of  a young  woman  of  twenty,  with  light  hair,  slightly 
powdered,  a high,  thoughtful  forehead,  and  remarkably 
large  and  luminous  black  eyes,  and  the  tall,  graceful  figure, 
attired  in  a rich  and  heavy  wooUen  dress  of  light  blue,  Char- 
lotte von  Kalb  turned  from  the  beautiful  vision  with  a sigh. 

“ I am  well  worthy  of  being  loved,  and  yet  no  one  loves 
me!  No  one!  Neither  the  husband,  forced  upon  me  by 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


my  family,  nor  my  sister,  who  only  thinks  of  the  unhappiness 
of  her  own  married  life,  nor  any  other  relative.  I am  alone. 
The  husband  who  should  be  at  my  side,  is  far  away  at  the 
court  of  the  beautiful  Queen  of  France.  The  sister  lives  with 
her  unloved  husband  on  her  estates.  I am  alone,  entirely 
alone!  Ah,  this  solitude  of  the  heart  is  cheerless,  for  my 
heart  is  filled  with  enthusiasm,  and  longing  for  love!” 

She  shuddered  as  she  uttered  these  words,  and  turned  her 
eyes  with  a startled,  anxious  look  to  the  little  picture  which, 
together  with  several  others,  hung  on  the  window-frame. 
She  slowly  walked  forward  and  gazed  at  it  long  and  thought- 
fully. It  was  only  a plain  black  silhouette  of  a head  taken 
in  profile.  But  how  expressive  was  this  profile,  how  magnifi- 
cent the  high,  thoughtful  forehead,  how  proud  the  sharply- 
defined  nose,  how  eloquent  the  swelling  lips,  and  how  power- 
ful the  massive  chin!  It  would  have  been  evident  to  any 
observer,  that  this  picture  represented  the  head  of  a man  of 
great  intellect,  although  he  had  not  seen,  written  underneath, 
the  name  Frederick  Schiller ! 

“Frederick  Schiller,” — ^ whispered  Charlotte,  with  a sigh, 
— “Frederick  Schiller!” 

Her  lips  said  nothing  more,  but  an  anxious  voice  kept  on 
whispering  and  lamenting  in  her  heart;  and  she  listened  to 
this  whispering,  and  gazed  vacantly  out  into  the  street ! 

The  door-bell  rang  and  roused  Charlotte  von  Kalb  from  her 
dreams.  Some  one  has  entered  the  house ! She  hopes  he  is 
not  coming  to  see  her ! She  does  not  wish  to  see  any  one,  for 
no  one  will  come  whom  she  cares  to  see ! 

Some  one  knocks  loudly  at  the  door ; a crimson  glow  suf- 
fuses itself  over  Charlotte’s  cheeks,  for  she  knows  this  knock, 
and  it  echoes  so  loudly  in  her  heart,  that  she  is  incapable  of 
answering  it. 

Tlie  knocking  is  heard  for  the  second  time,  and  a sudden 
nnaccountable  terror  takes  possession  of  Charlotte’s  heart; 
she  flies  througli  the  room  and  into  her  boudoir,  closing  the 
door  softly  behind  her.  But  she  remains  standing  near  it, 


CHARLOTTE  VON  KALB. 


43 


and  hears  the  door  open,  and  the  footsteps  of  a man  entering; 
and  then  she  hears  his  voice  as  he  calls  to  the  servant: 
“ Madame  von  Kalb  is  not  here ! Go  and  say  that  I beg  to 
be  permitted  to  see  her.’' 

Oh,  she  recognizes  this  voice! — the  voice  of  Frederick 
Schiller ; and  it  pierces  her  soul  like  lightning,  and  makes  her 
heart  quake. 

It  may  not  be!  No,  Charlotte;  by  all  that  is  holy,  it  may 
not  be ! Think  of  your  duty,  do  not  forget  it  for  a moment ! 
Steel  your  heart,  make  it  strong  and  firm ! Cover  your  face 
with  a mask,  an  impenetrable  mask!  No  one  must  dream  of 
what  is  going  on  in  your  breast — he  least  of  all ! 

A knock  is  heard  at  the  door  leading  to  her  bedchamber. 
It  is  her  maid  coming  to  announce  that  Mr.  Schiller  awaits 
her  in  the  reception-room. 

“ Tell  him  to  be  kind  enough  to  wait  a few  minutes.  I will 
come  directly.” 

After  a few  minutes  had  expired,  Charlotte  von  Kalb  en- 
tered the  reception-room  with  a clear  brow  and  smiling  coun- 
tenance. Schiller  had  advanced  to  meet  her,  and,  taking  the 
tapering  little  hand  which  she  extended,  he  pressed  it  fer- 
vently to  his  lips. 

“ Charlotte,  my  friend,  I come  to  you  because  my  heart  is 
agitated  with  stormy  thoughts,  for  I know  that  my  fair  friend 
understands  the  emotions  of  the  heart.” 

“Emotions  of  the  heart,  Schiller?”  she  asked,  laughing 
loudly.  “ Have  we  come  to  that  pass  again?  Already  an- 
other passion  besides  the  beautiful  Margaret  Schwan  and  the 
little  Charlotte  von  Wolzogen?” 

He  looked  up  wonderingly,  and  their  eyes  met ; Charlotte’s 
cheeks  grew  paler  in  spite  of  her  efforts  to  retain  the  laugh- 
ing expression  she  had  assumed. 

“How  strangely  you  speak  to-day,  Charlotte,  and  how 
changed  your  voice  sounds!” 

“I  have  taken  cold,  my  friend,”  said  she,  with  a slight 
shrug  of  her  shoulders.  “ You  know  very  well  that  I cannot 
4 


44 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


stand  the  cold ; it  kills  me ! But  it  was  not  to  hear  this  you 
came  to  see  me?’*' 

‘‘No,  that  is  very  true,”  replied  Schiller,  in  confusion. 
“ I did  not  come  for  that  purpose.  I — why  are  your  hands  so 
cold,  Charlotte,  and  why  have  you  given  me  no  word  of 
welcome?” 

“ Because  you  have  not  yet  given  me  an  opportunity  to  do 
so,”  she  said,  smiling.  “It  really  looks  as  if  you  had  come 
to-day  rather  in  your  capacity  of  regimental  surgeon,  to  call 
on  a patient,  than  as  a poet,  to  visit  an  intimate  acquaint- 
ance.” 

“An  intimate  acquaintance!”  exclaimed  Schiller,  throw- 
ing her  hand  ungently  from  him.  “ Charlotte,  will  you  then 
he  nothing  more  to  me  than  an  intimate  acquaintance?” 

“Well,  then,  a good  friend,”  she  said  quietly.  “But  let 
us  not  quarrel  about  terms,  Schiller.  We  very  well  know 
what  we  are  to  each  other.  You  should  at  least  know  that 
my  heart  sympathizes  with  all  that  concerns  you.  And  now 
tell  me,  my  dear  friend,  what  brings  you  here  at  this  unusual 
hour?  It  must  be  something  extraordinary  that  induces  the 
poet  Schiller  to  leave  his  study  at  this  hour.  Well,  have  I 
guessed  right?  Is  it  something  extraordinary?” 

“ I don’t  know,”  replied  Schiller,  in  some  confusion. 

“You  don’t  know!”  exclaimed  Charlotte,  with  a peal  of 
laughter,  which  seemed  to  grate  on  Schiller’s  ear,  for  he  re- 
coiled sensitively,  and  his  brow  darkened. 

“ I cannot  account  for  the  sudden  change  that  has  come 
over  me,”  said  Schiller,  thoughtfully.  “I  came  with  a full, 
confiding  heart,  Charlotte,  longing  to  see  you,  and  now,  all  at 
once  I feel  that  a barrier  of  ice  has  arisen  around  my  heart ; 
your  strangely  cold  and  indifferent  manner  has  frozen  me  to 
the  core.” 

“You  are  a child;  that  is  to  say,  you  are  a poet.  Come, 
my  poet,  let  us  not  quarrel  about  words  and  appearance; 
whatever  my  outward  manner  may  be,  you  know  that  I am 
sound  and  true  at  heart.  And  now  I see  why  you  came. 


CHARLOTTE  VON  KALB. 


45 


That  roll  of  paper  is  a manuscript ! Frederick  Schiller  has 
come,  as  he  promised  to  do  a few  days  ago,  to  read  his  latest 
poem  to  the  admirer  of  his  muse.  You  made  a mystery  of  it, 
and  would  not  even  tell  me  whether  your  new  work  was  a 
tragedy  or  a poem.  And  now  you  have  come  to  impart  this 
secret.  Is  it  not  so,  Schiller?’' 

“ Yes,  that  was  my  intention,”  he  replied,  sadly.  “ I wished 
to  read,  to  a sympathizing  and  loved  friend,  the  beginning  of 
a new  tragedy,  but — ” 

‘^No  ‘but’  whatever,”  she  exclaimed,  interrupting  him. 

“ Let  me  see  the  manuscript  at  once!”  and  she  tripped  lightly 
to  the  chair  on  which  he  had  deposited  his  hat  and  the  roll  of 
paper  on  entering  the  room. 

“May  I open  it,  Schiller?” — and  when  he  bowed  assent- 
ingly,  she  tore  off  the  cover  with  trembling  hands  and  read., 
“Don  Carlos,  Infanta  of  Spain;  a Tragedy.” — “ Oh,  my  dear 
Schiller,  a new  tragedy!  Oh,  my  poet,  my  dear  poet,  what 
a pleasure!  how  delightful!” 

“Oh,”  cried  Schiller,  exultingly;  “this  is  once  more  the 
beautiful  voice,  once  more  the  enthusiastic  glance ! Welcome, 
Charlotte,  a thousand  welcomes!” 

He  rushed  forward,  seized  her  hand,  and  pressed  it  to  his. 
lips.  She  did  not  look  at  him,  but  gazed  fixedly  at  the 
manuscript  which  she  still  held  in  her  hand,  and  repeated,  in 
a low  voice,  “ Don  Carlos,  Infanta  of  Spain.” 

“ Yes,  and  I will  now  read  this  Infanta,  that  is,  if  you  wish 
to  hear  it,  Charlotte?” 

“How  can  you  ask,  Schiller?  Quick,  seat  yourself  oppo- 
site me,  and  let  us  begin.” 

She  seated  herself  on  the  little  sofa,  and,  when  Schiller 
turned  to  go  after  a chair,  she  hastily  and  noiselessly  pressed 
a kiss  on  the  manuscript,  which  she  held  in  her  hand. 

When  Schiller  returned  with  the  chair,  the  manuscript  lay 
on  the  table,  and  Charlotte  sat  before  him  in  perfect  composure. 

Schiller  began  to  read  the  first  act  of  “ Don  Carlos”  to  his 
“friend,”  in  an  elevated  voice,  with  pathos  and  with  fiery 


46 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


emotion,  and  entirely  carried  away  by  the  power  of  his  own 
composition ! 

But  his  friend  and  auditor  did  not  seem  to  participate  in 
this  rapture!  Her  large  black  eyes  regarded  the  reader  in- 
tently. At  first  her  looks  expressed  lively  sympathy,  but  by 
degrees  this  expression  faded  away;  she  became  restless,  and 
at  times,  when  Schiller  declaimed  in  an  entirely  too  loud  and 
grandiloquent  manner,  a stealthy  smile  played  about  her  lips. 
Schiller  had  finished  reading,  and  laid  his  manuscript  on  the 
table;  he  now  turned  to  his  friend,  his  eyes  radiant  with  en- 
thusiasm. “ And  now,  my  dear,  my  only  friend,  give  me 
your  opinion,  honestly  and  sincerely ! What  do  you  think  of 
my  work?’' 

“Honestly  and  sincerely?”  she  inquired,  her  lips  twitching 
with  the  same  smile. 

“ Yes,  my  friend,  I beg  you  to  do  so.” 

“Well,  then,  my  dear  friend,”  she  exclaimed,  with  aloud 
and  continuous  peal  of  laughter;  “ well,  then,  my  dear  Schiller, 
I must  tell  you,  honestly  and  sincerely,  that  ‘Don  Carlos’  is 
the  very  worst  you  have  ever  written!” 

Schiller  sprang  up  from  his  chair,  horror  depicted  in  his 
countenance.  “ Your  sincere  opinion?” 

“Yes,  my  sincere  opinion!”  said  Charlotte  von  Kalb,  still 
laughing. 

“No,”  cried  Schiller,  angrily,  “this  is  too  bad!” 

Schiller  seized  his  hat,  and,  without  taking  the  slightest 
notice  of  Charlotte,  left  the  room,  slamming  the  door  behind 
him."^ 

With  great  strides,  he  hurried  through  the  streets,  chagrin 
and  resentment  in  his  heart;  and  yet  so  dejected,  so  full  of 
sadness,  that  he  could  have  cried  out  with  pain  and  anguish 
against  himself  and  a^ain.  t the  whole  world. 

AVhcn  he  s.xw  acquaintances  approaching,  he  turned  into  a 
side  street  to  avoid  them.  He  wished  to  see  no  one;  he  was 
not  in  a condition  to  speak  on  indifferent  subjects. 

* This  scene  is  hietoricaUy  exact. 


CHARLOTTE  VON  KALB. 


47 


He  reached  his  dwelling,  passed  up  the  stairway,  and  into 
the  room,  which  he  had  left  in  so  lofty  a frame  of  mind,  dis- 
pirited and  cast  down. 

It  is  all  in  vain,  all  in  vain,”  he  cried,  dashing  his  hat  to 
the  floor.  The  gold  I believed  I had  found,  proves  to  be 
nothing  but  glimmering  coals  that  have  now  died  out.  Oh, 
Frederick  Schiller,  what  is  to  become  of  you — what  can  you 
do  with  this  unreal  enthusiasm  burning  in  your  soul?” 

He  rushed  excitedly  to  and  fro  in  his  little  room,  striking 
the  books,  which  lay  around  on  the  floor  in  genial  disorder, 
so  violently  with  his  foot,  that  they  flew  to  the  farthest  cor- 
ners of  the  chamber. 

He  thrust  his  hands  wildly  into  his  disordered  hair,  tearing 
off  the  ribbon  which  confined  his  queue,  and  struck  with  his 
clinched  fist  the  miserable  little  table  which  he  honored  with 
the  name  of  his  writing-desk. 

These  paroxysms  of  fury,  of  glowing  anger — eruptions  of 
internal  desolation  and  despair — were  not  of  rare  occurrence 
in  the  life  of  the  poor,  tormented  poet. 

‘‘My  father  was  right,”  he  cried,  in  his  rage.  “I  am  an 
inflated  fool,  who  over-estimates  himself,  and  boasts  of  great 
prospects  and  expectations  which  are  never  to  be  realized! 
Why  did  I not  listen  to  his  wise  counsel?  why  did  I not  re- 
main the  regimental  surgeon,  and  crouch  submissively  at  the 
feet  of  my  tyrant?  Why  was  I such  a simpleton  as  to  desire 
to  do  any  thing  better  than  apply  plasters ! I imagined  my- 
self invited  to  the  table  of  the  gods,  whereas  I am  only  worthy 
to  stand  as  a lackey  at  the  table  of  my  Duke,  and  eat  the  hard 
crust  of  duty  and  subserviency ! She  laughed ! Laughed  at 
my  poem!  All  these  words,  these  thoughts  that  had  blos- 
somed up  from  the  depths  of  my  heart ; all  these  forms  to 
whom  I had  given  spirit  of  my  spirit,  life  of  my  life:  all  this 
had  no  other  effect  than  to  excite  laughter — laughter  over  my 
tragedy!  Oh,  Charlotte,  Charlotte,  why  have  you  done  this?” 

And  he  again  thrust  his  hands  violently  into  his  hair,  and 
sank  groaning  into  his  chair. 


48 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


“ I am  unhappy,  very  unhappy ! I believed  I could  con- 
quer a world,  and  have  not  yet  conquered  a single  human 
heart!  I hoped  to  acquire  honor,  renown,  and  a competency 
by  the  creative  power  of  my  talents,  and  am  but  a poor,  name- 
less man,  tormented  by  creditors,  by  misery,  and  want,  who 
must  at  last  admit  that  he  placed  a false  estimate  on  his 
abilities.  Truly  I am  unhappy,  very  unhappy!  Entirely 
alone;  none  who  loves  or  understands  me!” 

Deep  sighs  escaped  his  breast,  and  tears  stood  in  the  eyes 
that  looked  up  reproachfully  toward  heaven. 

As  he  lowered  his  eyes,  he  looked  toward  the  writing- 
table — the  writing-table  at  which  he  had  spent  so  many  hours 
of  the  night  in  hard  work ; at  which  he  had  written,  thought, 
and  suffered  so  much. 

“In  vain,  all  in  vain!  Nothing  but  illusion  and  dis- 
appointment! If  what  I have  written  with  my  heart’s  blood 
excites  laughter,  I am  no  poet,  am  not  one  of  the  anointed ! 
It  were  better  I had  copied  deeds  and  written  recipes,  instead 
of  tragedies,  for  a living,  and — ” 

He  ceased  speaking  as  he  observed  a letter  and  package, 
which  the  carrier  had  brought  and  deposited  on  his  table  dur- 
ing his  absence. 

A simple  letter  would  have  excited  no  pleasure  or  curios- 
ity ; yes,  would  even  have  filled  him  with  consternation,  for 
the  letters  he  was  in  the  habit  of  receiving  only  caused  hu- 
miliation and  pain.  They  were  either  from  dunning  cred- 
itors, from  his  angry  father,  or  from  theatre-managers,  re- 
jecting his  “Fiesco,”  as  useless,  and  not  adapted  to  the 
stage. 

But  beside  this  letter  lay  a package;  and  the  letter  which 
Schiller  now  took  from  the  table  bore  the  postmark  Leipsic. 
From  Leipsic!  Who  could  write  to  him?  who  could  send 
him  a j)ackage  from  that  city?  Who  had  ever  sent  him  any 
thing  but  rejected  manuscripts  and  theatrical  pieces? 

“Ah,  that  was  it!”  He  had  also  sent  his  “ Fiesco”  to  the 
director  of  the  theatre  at  Leipsic,  and  this  gentleman  had 


CHARLOTTE  VON  KALB. 


49 

now  returned  it  with  a polite  letter  of  refusal.  Of  course,  it 
could  be  nothing  else! 

He  wrathfully  broke  the  seal,  unfolded  the  letter,  and 
looked  first  at  the  signature,  to  assure  himself  that  he  had  not 
been  deceived. 

But  no!  This  was  not  the  name  of  the  director  in  Leipsic; 
and  what  did  these  four  signatures  in  different  handwritings 
mean?  There  were:  “ C.  G.  Körner,”  and,  beside  it,  Minna  iX 
Stock;”  and  under  these  names  two  others,  “ L.  F.  Huber,” 
and  “ Dora  Stock.” 

Schiller  shook  his  head  wonderingly,  and  began  to  read  the 
letter;  at  first  with  composure,  but,  as  he  read  on,  became 
agitated,  and  his  pale  cheek  colored  with  pleasure. 

From  the  far-off  Leipsic  four  impassioned  beings  wafted  a 
greeting  to  the  distant,  unknown  poet. 

They  wished  to  thank  Frederick  Schiller,  they  wrote,  for 
the  many  delightful  hours  for  which  they  were  indebted  to 
him ; to  thank  him  for  the  sublime  poetry  which  had  awakened 
the  noblest  feelings  in  their  bosoms  and  filled  their  hearts 
with  enthusiasm.  They,  two  bridal  couples,  were  deeply  im- 
bued with  love  for  each  other,  and  the  high  thought  and  feel- 
ing of  Frederick  Schiller’s  poems  had  excited  emotions  in 
them  which  tended  to  make  them  better  and  happier.  They 
wrote  further,  that  nothing  was  wanting  to  complete  their 
happiness  but  the  presence  of  the  poet  at  the  consummation 
of  their  union.  Together  they  had  read  his  “Robbers,”  his 
“Louise  Müllerin,”  and  his  “Fiesco;”  and  while  so  engaged 
love  had  taken  root  in  their  hearts,  grown  and  blossomed,  and 
for  all  this  they  were  indebted  to  Frederick  Schiller.  They 
therefore  implored  him  to  come  to  Leipsic  on  the  wedding- 
day.  And  then  in  touching,  cordial  words,  they  told  him 
that  they  never  spoke  of  him  but  as  their  dearest  friend  and 
benefactor.  And  further,  they  begged  permission  to  send  the 
accompanying  package  as  a token  of  their  gratitude  in  the 
ardent  admiration  which  they  entertained  for  him  in  common 
with  every  feeling  heart  and  thinking  head  in  Germany. 


50 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


He  laid  the  letter  aside,  and  hastily  opened  the  package, 
for  he  longed  to  see  the  persons  who  so  ardently  admired  him. 

And  there  they  were,  these  dear  persons,  in  beautiful  min- 
iatures, on  each  of  which  the  name  of  the  painter,  Huber, 
was  inscribed.  How  charming  and  beautiful  were  the  two 
girlish  faces  which  seemed  to  smile  upon  Schiller  from  the 
two  medallions;  how  grave  and  thoughtful  the  head  of  the 
young  man  designated  as  Körner ; how  genial  and  bold  the 
face  of  the  painter  Huber!  But  there  was  something  else  in 
the  package  besides  the  four  portraits.  There  was  a song 
neatly  written  on  gilt-edged  paper,  a song  from  “ The  Bob- 
bers,” and  Körner ’s  name  was  given  as  the  composer.  More- 
over, the  package  contained  a magnificent  pocket-book,  worked 
in  gold  and  silk,  and  embroidered  in  pearls;  in  the  inside  he 
found  a little  note  in  which  Dora  and  Minna  had  written  that 
they  had  worked  this  pocket-book  while  their  fiances  read  his 
tragedies  to  them. 

Schiller  regarded  these  tokens  of  love  and  esteem  with  as- 
tonishment. It  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  dreaming;  that 
all  this  was  an  illusion,  and  could  not  be  reality.  How  could 
he,  who,  but  a few  hours  before  had  experienced  such  morti- 
fication and  humiliation,  he  who  had  been  ridiculed,  scolded, 
and  laughed  at ; how  could  he  be  the  happy  recipient  of  such 
appreciation  and  recognition?  How  was  it  possible  that  peo- 
ple with  whom  he  was  not  even  acquainted,  who  knew  noth- 
ing of  him,  could  send  him  a greeting,  presents,  and  words  of 
thanks?  No,  no,  it  was  all  a dream,  an  illusion!  But  there 
lay  the  letter,  yes,  there  lay  the  eloquent  witness  of  truth  and 
reality ! Schiller  seized  the  letter  with  trembling  hands,  and 
continued  reading. 

“ We  must  tell  you,  you  great  and  noble  poet,  that  we  are 
indebted  to  you  for  the  brightest  and  best  hours  of  our  life. 
What  was  good  in  us  you  made  better,  what  was  dark  in  us 
you  made  light ; our  inmost  being  has  been  elevated  by  your 
poems.  Your  sublime  words  arc  constantly  on  our  lips  when 
we  are  together.  Accept  our  thanks,  Frederick  Schiller,  ao- 


CHARLOTTE  VON  KALB. 


51 


cept  the  thanks  of  two  German  youths  and  two  German 
maidens!  Let  them  speak  to  you  in  the  name  of  the  German 
nation,  in  the  name  of  the  thousands  of  German  maidens  and 
youths  who  sing  your  songs  with  enthusiasm,  and  whose  eyes 
fill  with  tears  of  devotion  and  delight  when  they  see  your 
tragedies!” 

Tears  of  devotion  and  delight ! Schiller’s  eyes  are  now  filled 
with  such  tears.  He  sinks  down  upon  his  knees  almost  un- 
consciously, and  his  soul  rises  in  inspiration  to  God.  He 
raises  his  arms  and  folds  his  hands  as  if  in  prayer,  and  the 
tearful  eye  seeks  and  finds  heaven. 

“ I thank  Thee,  God,  that  Thou  hast  blessed  me  with  such 
happiness.  I thank  you,  my  absent  friends,  to  whom  my 
heart  longs  to  fly.  I thank  you  for  this  hour ! I thank  you, 
because  it  is  the  happiest  of  my  life.  Your  loving  greeting 
sounds  on  my  ear  like  a voice  in  the  desert,  cheering  and  con- 
soling. And  I,  who  was  crushed  in  pain  and  despair,  once- 
more  arise  in  renewed  hope  and  happiness.  0 God ! when  I 
think  that  there  are,  perhaps,  others  in  this  world  besides« 
you,  the  two  happy  couples  who  love  me,  who  would  be  glad 
to  know  me ; that,  perhaps,  in  a hundred  years  or  more,  when 
my  dust  is  long  since  scattered  to  the  winds,  people  will  still 
bless  my  memory,  and  pay  it  a tribute  of  tears  and  admiration 
when  my  body  is  slumbering  in  the  grave;  then,  my  beloved 
unknown  friends,  then  I am  proud  of  my  mission,  and  am 
reconciled  to  my  God  and  my  sometimes  cruel  fate.  * 

“ Now  I know  that  I am  a poet,”  he  exclaimed,  rising  from 
his  knees  and  walking  to  and  fro  with  rapid  strides.  “ It  was 
not  a dream,  a vain  illusion!  I am  a poet!  These  noble 
souls  and  loving  hearts  could  not  have  been  enkindled  by  my 
works  if  they  had  not  been  deeply  imbued  with  the  fire  of 
poetry ! I am  a poet,  although  she  laughed  at  and  ridiculed 
me ! She  of  ah  others ; she  who  I thought  would  certainly 
understand  me!” 

Schiller  opened  the  door  to  admit  some  one  who  knocked 

♦Schiller’s  own  words.— See  “Relations,”  etc.,  p.  448.  ()g 

ILLINOIS  LIBRARY 

^T  urbana-champaign 


52 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


loudly.  A liveried  servant  entered  and  handed  him  a little 
note. 

These  few  words  were  written  on  the  sheet  of  paper  in 
almost  illegible  characters:  “ I conjure  you  to  come  to  me,  my 
friend!  I have  something  of  importance  to  communicate! 
Be  magnanimous,  and  come  at  once!  Charlotte!” 

She  had  appealed  to  his  magnanimity  at  a favorable  mo- 
ment ! She  had  irritated  and  mortified  him  greatly,  but  balm 
had  been  applied  to  the  wound,  and  it  no  longer  smarted. 

“ Go,  Charles,  and  tell  Madame  von  Kalb  that  I will  come 
at  once!” 

Charles  leaves  the  room,  followed  by  Schiller,  whose 
thoughts  are  not  occupied  with  Charlotte  on  the  way  this 
time,  but  with  the  four  friends  in  Leipsic,  who  love  him  and 
who  did  not  laugh  at  his  “Don  Carlos.”  These  thoughts 
illumine  his  countenance  with  serenity  and  noble  self- 
consciousness.  He  carries  himself  more  proudly  and  his  face 
is  brighter  and  clearer  than  ever  before,  for  the  recognition  of 
his  fellow-man  has  fallen  upon  and  elevated  him  like  the  bless- 
ing of  God. 

He  enters  Charlotte’s  dwelling  and  passes  through  the  hall 
to  the  door  of  her  room. 

Charlotte  awaits  him,  standing  at  the  open  door,  her  eyes 
red  with  weeping,  and  yet  a heavenly  smile  resting  on  her 
countenance.  She  beckons  to  him  to  enter;  and  when  he 
had  done  so  and  closed  the  door,  Charlotte  falls  on  her  knees 
before  him;  she,  the  beautiful,  high-born  lady,  before  the 
poor  young  poet — but  yet  the  poet  “by  the  grace  of  God.” 
“ Oh,  Schiller,  dear  Schiller,  can  you  forgive  me?  I appeal  to 
you,  the  genius,  the  noblest  of  German  poets,  for  forgiveness!” 

He  stooped  down  to  her  in  dismay.  “For  God’s  sake,  my 
lady,  what  are  you  doing?  How  can  you  so  debase  yourself? 
Stand  up.  I conjure  you,  stand  up!” 

“ Schiller,  not  until  you  have  forgiven  my  error;  not  until 
you  swear  that  that  horrible  scene  no  longer  excites  your 
anger!” 


CHARLOTTE  VON  KALB. 


53 


“ I swear  to  you,  Charlotte,  that  I feel  no  trace  of  displeas- 
ure. Good  angels  have  wafted  from  me  all  irritation  and 
anger  with  the  breath  of  love.  And  now  arise,  Charlotte! 
Let  me  assist  you  with  my  hand.” 

She  took  hold  of  the  large  hand  which  he  extended,  with 
her  two  little  hands,  and  raised  herself  up.  ‘‘  Oh,  my  dear 
Schiller,  how  I have  suffered,  and  yet  how  much  delight  I 
have  experienced  since  your  departure!  How  fortunate  it 
was  that  you  had  forgotten  your  manuscript  in  your  displeas- 
ure ! I read  it  once  more,  to  strengthen  my  opinion  as  to  its 
want  of  merit.  But  how  completely  had  I been  deceived, 
how  sublime  a poem  is  this  tragedy,  how  melodious  is  the  flow 
of  words,  how  poetic  is  the  heavenward  flight  of  thought! 
Hail  to  you,  my  friend,  hail  to  your  future,  for  your  latest 
poem,  your  ‘Don  Carlos,’  is  the  most  beautiful  you  have  yet 
written!” 

“Oh,  Charlotte,”  exclaimed  Schiller,  joyfully,  “is  it  true, 
are  you  in  earnest?  But  no,  only  your  goodness  of  heart 
prompted  you  to  utter  these  words.  In  your  generosity  you 
wish  to  soothe  the  pain  your  condemnation  inflicted.” 

“No,  Schiller,  I swear  by  all  that  is  high  and  beautiful,  by 
yourself,  by  your  poetic  genius,  that  your  ‘Don  Carlos’  will 
adorn  your  brow  with  a laurel-wreath  of  immortality.  After 
the  lapse  of  centuries  this  tragedy  will  be  still  praised  and 
esteemed  as  a masterpiece ; and  the  entire  German  nation  will 
say  with  pride,  ‘Frederick  Schiller  was  our  own!  The  poems 
which  excited  enthusiasm  and  delight  throughout  all  Europe 
were  written  in  the  German  language,  and  Frederick  Schiller 
was  a German  poet!’  Oh,  could  my  spirit  wing  its  flight 
earthward  to  hear  posterity  proclaim  these  words,  and  to  sing 
the  song  of  rejoicing  on  the  immortal  grave  of  him  whom  my 
spirit  recognized  and  revered  while  he  still  trod  the  earth  in 
the  flesh ! Schiller,  something  seems  to  tell  me  that  I am  the 
Muse  destined  to  consecrate  the  poet  with  the  kiss  of  love  and 
of  pain.  What  can  a woman  give  the  man  she  honors  above 
all  others,  and  for  whom  she  entertains  the  purest  affection, 


54 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


what  more  noble  gift  can  she  bestow  upon  him  than  the  kisö 
of  consecration  from  her  lips?  Take  it,  Frederick  Schiller, 
poet  of  ‘Don  Carlos,’  take  from  my  lips  the  kiss  of  conseera- 
tion,  the  kiss  of  gratitude.” 

“ Oh,  Charlotte,  my  Muse,  my  friend,  and  let  me  say  the 
grand,  the  divine  word,  my  beloved!  I thank  you!” 

He  entwined  her  slender  figure  with  his  arms ; pressed  her 
to  his  heart,  and  imprinted  a long  and  ardent  kiss  upon  her 
lips,  then  looked  at  her  with  sparkling  eyes,  and,  enraptured 
with  her  blushing  countenance,  his  lips  were  about  to  seek 
hers  for  the  second  time. 

With  a quick  movement,  Charlotte  withdrew  from  his  em- 
brace, and  stepped  back.  “ The  sublime  moment  has  passed,” 
she  said,  with  earnestness  and  dignity.  “ We  again  belong  to 
the  world,  to  reality;  now,  that  we  have  done  homage  to  the 
gods  and  muses,  we  must  again  accommodate  ourselves  to  the 
rules  and  customs  of  the  world.” 

“And  why,  Charlotte,  why  should  we  do  so?  Are  not 
those  rules  changeable  and  fieeting?  What  men  denounce  as 
crimes  to-day,  they  proclaim  as  heroic  deeds  at  some  other 
time ; and  what  they  to-day  brand  as  vice,  they  will  perhaps 
praise  as  virtue  at  some  future  day.  Oh,  Charlotte,  I love 
you,  my  soul  calls  for  you,  my  heart  yearns  for  you.  When 
I look  upon  you,  all  is  feeling  and  blissful  enjoyment!  Let 
us  unite  the  souls  which  arise  above  earthly  feeling  to  divine 
sublimity ; let  us  unite  in  the  godlike  love  in  which  heart  re- 
sponds to  heart,  and  soul  to  soul.  Oh,  do  not  look  wonder- 
ingly  at  me  with  those  profound  and  glowing  eyes ! Char- 
lotte, have  you  not  long  since  known  and  divined  that  I loved 
you,  and  you  only?” 

“Me  only,”  she  cried,  sadly.  “No,  it  is  not  so,  not  me 
only!  It  is  love  that  you  love  in  me,  and  not  myself.  Oh, 
Schiller,  beware,  I pray  you;  for  your  own  sake,  beware! 
Take  back  your  avowal.  I will  not  have  heard  it,  it  shall 
have  died  away  iiiaudibly — have  been  erased  from  my  fan- 
tasy. Take  it  back — but  no,  rather  say  nothing  more  about 


CHARLOTTE  VON  KALB. 


55 


it.  Let  this  moment  be  forgotten,  as  the  last  golden  ray  of 
the  setting  sun  is  forgotten.  Let  us  speak  to  each  other  as 
we  have  been  accustomed  to  do,  as  friends!’' 

“Friends!”  exclaimed  Schiller,  angrily.  “I  say  to  you, 
with  Aristotle:  ‘Oh,  my  friends,  there  are  no  friends!’  At 
least  what  I feel  for  you,  Charlotte,  is  not  friendship!  It  is 
ardent,  passionate  love!  But  this  you  cannot  comprehend. 
You  do  not  know  what  love  is;  your  heart  is  cold!” 

“My  heart  cold?”  she  repeated,  with  sparkling  eyes.  “I 
not  know  what  love  is ! And  Frederick  Schiller  tells  me  this ! 
The  poet’s  eyes  are  clouded ! He  does  not  look  behind  the 
veil,  which  the  usage  of  the  world  has  thrown  over  my  coun- 
tenance. I know  what  love  is,  Frederick  Schiller!  But 
ought  I,  the  married  woman,  the  wife  of  an  unloved  and  un- 
loving husband,  ought  I to  know  love?  Must  I not  wipe  the 
tear  of  delight  from  my  eye,  suppress  the  longing  cry  on  my 
lips,  and  erect  a barrier  of  ice  around  the  heart,  that  burns 
and  glows  with  the  flames  which  animate  my  whole  being, 
giving  warmth  and  light,  like  the  flres  in  the  bosom  of  the 
earth?  If  I were  free,  if  the  will  of  my  relations  had  not 
forced  me  to  the  altar,  where  I fainted  after  my  lips  pro- 
nounced the  fatal  word  of  assent  ;*  if  I could  name  the  man 
I love,  I would  say  to  him : ‘ Beloved,  you  are  the  life  of  my 

life,  the  heart  of  my  heart,  and  the  thought  of  my  thought. 
From  you  I receive  all  being,  and  breathe  all  inspiration  from 
your  glances ! Take  me  to  yourself  as  the  sea  receives  the 
drop  of  rain,  absorbing  it  in  its  bosom ! Let  me  be  a part  of 
your  life ! Let  me  feel  that  my  own  being  merges  its  identity 
in  yours ! I have  lost  myself  that  I may  And  myself  in  you. 
My  sun  sets,  to  rise  again  with  you  to  the  serene  heights  of 
bliss,  of  knowledge,  and  of  poetry.  For  us  there  is  no  more 
parting  on  earth  or  in  heaven ; for  we  are  one,  and  by  murder 
only  can  you  make  of  this  union  two  distinct  beings  capable 
of  going  in  different  directions.  But  I would  not  wander  on, 
for  separation  from  you,  my  beloved,  with  whom  I had  been 

♦See  Charlotte.— “For  the  friends  of  the  deceased,”  printed  as  MS.,  p.  86. 


56 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


made  one,  would  only  be  accomplished  by  shedding  my  heart’s 
blood.  But  my  lips  would  not  accuse  you ; they  would  receive 
the  kiss  of  death  in  silence ! Therefore,  if  you  do  not  wish  to 
kill  me,  be  true,  as  I shall  be  unto  death.’  ” 

“Charlotte,  heavenly  being,”  cried  Schiller,  gazing  at  her 
radiant  countenance  with  astonishment  and  delight,  “you 
stand  before  me  as  in  a halo!  you  are  a Titaness;  you  storm 
the  ramparts  of  heaven!” 

A smile  flitted  over  her  features,  and  she  lowered  the  eyes, 
which  had  been  gazing  upward,  again  to  earth,  and  regarded 
Schiller  earnestly  and  intently.  “ I have  told  you  how  I 
would  speak  to  the  man  I loved,  if  I dared.  Duty  forbids  it, 
however,  and  1 must  be  dumb.  But  I can  speak  to  you  as  a 
friend  and  as  a sympathizing  acquaintance,  and  rejoice  with 
you  over  your  magnificent  work.  Seat  yourself  at  my  side, 
Schiller,  and  let  us  talk  about  your  ‘Don  Carlos.’  ” 

“ No,  Charlotte,  not  until  you  have  first  honestly  and 
openly  acknowledged,  why  this  sudden  change  took  place,  and 
how  it  is  you  are  now  pleased  with  what  only  excited  your 
laughter  a few  hours  ago?” 

“ Shall  I tell  you,  honestly  and  openly?” 

“ Yes,  my  friend,  henceforth  everything  must  be  open  and 
honest  between  us!” 

“Well,  then,  my  friend,  you  yourself  bear  the  blame.” 

“Myself?  How  so,  Charlotte?” 

“ I acknowledge  it  out  of  friendship,  your  tragedy  was 
spoiled  in  the  reading.  You  are  a poet,  but  not  an  orator. 
In  the  heat  of  delivery,  my  friend  forgets  that  Don  Carlos 
did  not  speak  Suabian  German,  and  that  King  Philip  ‘halt 
nit  aus  Stuckart  ist.’  * And  now,  that  I have  told  you,  give 
me  your  hand,  Schiller,  and  swear  that  you  will  forget  my 
laugliter !” 

“No,  I will  forget  nothing  that  you  say  or  do,  Charlotte; 
for  all  that  you  do  is  good,  and  beautiful,  and  amiable!  I 

* A provincialism.  It  should  be,  “ ist  nicht  aus  Stuttgart,”  and  means  is  not 
from  Stuttgart. 


CHARLOTTE  VON  KALB. 


57 


kiss  the  loved  hand  that  struck  me,  and  would  like  to  demand 
as  an  atonement  a kiss  from  the  cruel  lips  which  laughed  at 
me.’' 

“No  jesting,  Schiller;  let  us  be  grave,  and  discuss  the 
future  of  your  ‘Don  Carlos.’  Something  great,  something 
extraordinary,  must  be  done  for  this  great  and  extraordinary 
work ! It  must  shoot  like  a blazing  meteor  over  the  earth, 
and  engrave  its  name  in  characters  of  flame  on  huts  and  pal- 
aces alike.  The  poet  who  makes  kings  and  princes  speak  so 
beautifully,  must  himself  speak  with  kings  and  princes — 
must  obtain  a princely  patron.  And  I have  already  formed  a 
plan  to  effect  this.  Schiller,  you  must  become  acquainted 
with  the  Duke  Charles  August  of  Weimar,  or  rather  he  must 
become  acquainted  with  you,  and  be  your  patron.  Do  you 
desire  this?” 

“And  if  I do,”  sighed  Schiller,  shrugging  his  shoulders, 
“ he  will  not ! He,  the  genial  duke,  who  has  his  great  and 
celebrated  Goethe,  and  his  Wieland,  and  Herder,  he  will  nox, 
trouble  himself  much  about  the  poor  young  Schiller.  At  the 
best,  he  will  anathematize  the  author  of  ‘The  Robbers,’  like 
all  the  other  noblemen  and  rulers,  and  be  entirely  satisfled  if  his 
mad  poetry  is  shipwrecked  on  the  rock  of  public  indifference.” 

“You  do  the  noble  Duke  Charles  and  yourself  wrong,” 
cried  Charlotte,  with  vivacity.  “ Charles  August  of  Weimar 
is  no  ordinary  prince,  and  you  are  no  ordinary  poet.  You 
should  know  each  other,  because  you  are  both  extraordinary 
men.  May  I make  you  acquainted  with  each  other?  The 
Duke  Charles  August  is  coming  to  Darmstadt  to  visit  his 
relations.  Are  you  willing  to  go  there  and  be  introduced  to 
him?” 

“Yes,  I will  gladly  do  so,”  exclaimed  Schiller,  with  eager- 
ness. “The  poet  needs  a princely  protector!  Who  knows 
whether  Tasso  would  ever  have  written  his  ‘Jerusalem  De- 
livered,’ if  the  Duke  of  Este  had  not  been  his  friend — if  he 
had  not  found  an  asylum  at  the  court  of  this  prince?  If  you 
can,  Charlotte,  and  if  you  consider  me  worthy  of  the  honor 


58 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


procure  me  this  introduction,  and  the  patronage  of  the  Duke 
Charles  August.  May  he,  who  lets  the  sun  of  his  friendship 
shine  upon  Goethe,  send  down  one  little  ray  of  his  grace  to 
warm  my  cold  and  solitary  chamber!  I will  crave  but  little, 
if  the  Duke  would  only  interest  himself  in  the  interdicted 
‘Eobbers. ’ This  alone  would  be  of  great  service  to  me.” 

“ He  will,  I hope,  do  more  for  you,  Schiller.  I know  the 
Duke,  and  also  the  Landgravine  of  Hesse ! I will  give  you 
letters  to  both  of  them,  and  Mr.  von  Dalberg,  toward  whom 
the  Duke  is  graciously  inclined,  will  also  do  so.  Oh,  it  will 
succeed,  it  must  succeed!  We  will  draw  you  forcibly  out  of 
the  shade  and  into  the  light!  Not  only  the  German  people, 
but  also  the  German  princes,  shall  love  and  honor  the  poet 
Frederick  Schiller;  and  my  hand  shall  lead  him  to  the  throne 
of  a prince.” 

“And  let  me  kiss  this  fair  hand,”  said  Schiller,  passion- 
ately. Believe  me,  Charlotte,  all  your  words  have  fallen  like 
stars  into  my  heart,  and  illumined  it  with  celestial  splendor!” 

“May  these  stars  never  grow  pale!”  sighed  Charlotte. 
“ May  we  never  be  encompassed  with  the  dark  night ! But 
now,  my  friend,  go!” 

“You  send  me  away,  Charlotte?” 

“Yes,  I send  you  away,  Schiller.  We  must  deal  econom- 
ically with  the  beautiful  moments  of  life.  Now  go!” 

On  the  evening  of  this  day  of  so  many  varied  emotions, 
Schiller  wrote  letters,  in  which  he  warmly  thanked  his  un- 
known friends  in  Leipsic.  In  writing,  he  opened  his  heart 
in  an  unreserved  history  of  his  life — so  poor  in  joys,  and  so 
rich  in  deprivations  and  disappointed  hopes.  He  imparted 
to  them  all  that  he  had  achieved;  all  his  intentions  and  de- 
sires. He  told  them  of  his  poverty  and  want;  for  false  shame 
was  foreign  to  Schiller’s  nature.  In  his  eyes  the  want  of 
money  was  not  a want  of  honor  and  dignity.  He  acknowl- 
edged every  thing  to  the  distant,  unknown  friends — his  home- 
less feeling,  and  his  longing  to  be  in  some  other  sphere,  with 
other  men  who  might  perhaps  love  and  understand  him. 


THE  TITLE. 


59 


As  he  wrote  this  he  hesitated,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
could  see  the  sorrowful,  reproachful  look  of  Charlotte’s  large, 
glowing  eyes;  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  she  whispered,  “Is 
this  your  love,  Schiller?  You  wish  to  leave  me,  and  yet  you 
know  that  you  will  be  my  murderer  if  you  go!” 

He  shuddered,  and  laid  aside  his  pen,  and  arose  and  walked 
with  rapid  strides  up  and  down  his  room.  The  glowing 
words  which  Charlotte  had  spoken  to  him  that  morning  again 
resounded  in  his  ear,  but  now,  in  the  stillness  of  the  night, 
they  were  no  longer  the  same  heavenly  music. 

“I  believe  it  is  dangerous  to  love  her,“  he  murmured. 
“ She  claims  my  whole  heart,  and  would  tyrannize  over  me 
with  her  passion.  But  I must  be  free,  for  he  only  who  is 
free  can  conquer  the  world  and  achieve  honor ; and  the  love 
which  refreshes  my  heart  must  never  aspire  to  become  my 
tyrant!“ 

He  returned  to  his  writing-table  and  finished  the  letter 
which  he  had  commenced  to  Körner.  He  wrote:  “I  would 
that  a happy  destiny  led  me  away  from  here,  for  I feel  that 
my  stay  in  this  place  should  come  to  an  end.  I wish  I could 
visit  you  in  Leipsic,  to  thank  you  for  the  hour  of  delight  for 
which  I am  indebted  to  you ! Aristotle  was  wrong  when  he 
said:  ‘Oh,  my  friends,  there  are  no  friends!’  I think  of  you 
and  yours;  I think  of  you  four,  and  cry  joyously:  ‘There  are 
friends,  nevertheless!  Blessed  is  he  to  whom  it  is  vouch- 
safed by  the  gods  to  find  friends  without  having  sought 
them!’“ 


CHAPTEE  VI. 

THE  TITLE. 

Charlotte  yok  Kalb  had  kept  her  word.  She  had 
equipped  Schiller  with  letters  of  introduction  to  the  Duke 
Charles  August  and  members  of  his  family ; she  had  also  in- 
duced Mr.  von  Dalberg  to  furnish  him  with  letters  to  influ- 


60 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


ential  friends  at  the  court  of  Darmstadt.  Provided  with 
these  recommendations,  and  in  his  modesty  and  humility  at- 
taching greater  importance  to  them  than  to  his  own  reputa- 
tion and  dignity,  Schiller  journeyed  to  Darmstadt,  in  the 
beginning  of  the  year  1785,  for  the  purpose  of  endeavoring  to 
obtain  a friend  and  protector  tn  the  Duke  Charles  August  of 
Weimar. 

Dalberg’s  and  Charlotte’s  letters  accomplished  more  than 
Schiller’s  name  and  worth  could  possibly  have  done.  The 
author  of  “ The  Eobbers”  and  ‘‘  Piesco,”  poems  which  lauded 
freedom  and  popular  government,  and  of  “Louise  Müllerin,” 
which  branded  aristocracy  as  opposed  to  the  rights  of  the 
human  heart ; a poet  who  had  da^^ed  to  defy  a prince  and  a 
ruler  could  not  have  entered  the  golden  gates  of  a princely 
palace  without  the  golden  key  of  Dalberg’s  and  Charlotte’s 
letters. 

Frederick  Schiller  was  received  at  the  court  of  the  land- 
grave in  Darmstadt.  The  young  and  joyous  Duke  Charles 
August  of  Weimar  welcomed  the  poet  cordially,  and,  prompted 
by  the  enthusiastic  praises  of  Madame  von  Kalb,  requested 
Schiller  to  read  him  a portion  of  the  new  tragedy. 

Schiller  offered  to  read  the  first  act  of  “Don  Carlos,”  and 
his  offer  was  graciously  accepted.  The  reading  took  place  on 
the  afternoon  of  the  same  day.  A brilliant  array  of  noble- 
men in'  embroidered  court  dress,  and  adorned  with  decora- 
tions, and  of  magnificently  attired  ladies,  sparkling  with 
jewels,  had  assembled  in  the  reception-room  of  the  land- 
gravine. She,  the  lover  of  art,  the  intellectual  Landgravine 
of  Hesse,  had  seated  herself  at  the  side  of  the  Duke  Charles 
August  on  the  sofa  in  the  middle  of  the  saloon,  behind  which 
the  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  the  court  were  standing  in  groups. 
Not  far  oft*,  and  completely  isolated,  stood  a plain  cane- 
bottomed  chair,  and  a little  round  table,  on  which  a glass  of 
water  had  been  placed.  This  was  the  poet’s  throne,  and  this 
Was  the  nectar  he  was  to  drink  at  the  table  of  the  gods. 

He  felt  embarrassed  and  almost  awe-stricken  as  he  entered 


THE  TITLE. 


61 


the  brilliant  court  circle  in  his  homely  garb ; he  felt  the  blood 
first  rush  to  his  cheeks  and  then  back  to  his  heart  again,  leav- 
ing his  countenance  deathly  pale. 

House  yourself,  Schiller,  and  be  a man!  Shame  upon  you 
for  being  blinded  by  the  trumpery  and  outward  glitter  of 
nobility  and  princely  rank!’'  He  said  this  to  himself  as  he 
walked  to  the  place  set  apart  for  him,  feeling  that  the  eyes  of 
all  rested  on  him  with  a cold,  examining  glance. 

“ What  do  I care  for  this  pack  of  courtiers,  this  court- 
marshal  Von  Kalb  and  his  associates?”  said  he  to  himself,  de- 
fiantly. “ It  was  not  on  their  account  I came  here,  and  what 
they  may  think  of  me  is  a matter  of  complete  indifference. 
I aspire  only  to  the  good  opinion  of  the  duke,  of  the  friend  of 
the  great  Goethe.” 

He  looked  over  toward  the  sofa,  and  his  glance  encountered 
the  eyes  of  the  young  duke,  whose  countenance  was  turned  to 
him  with  a smile  and  an  expression  of  good-natured  sympathy. 
Schiller  felt  encouraged,  and  a smile  flitted  over  his  features. 

He  opened  his  manuscript  and  began  to  read  the  first  act 
of  “ Don  Carlos”  in  a clear  and  loud  voice.  His  voice  was  full 
and  sonorous,  and  his  delivery,  thanks  to  Charlotte’s  admoni- 
tions, was  purer  and  more  moderate ; and,  as  he  read  on,  his 
embarrassment  disappeared,  and  the  clouds  lifted  from  his 
high  brow. 

The  courtiers,  who  had  first  regarded  the  young  poet  con- 
temptuously, now  began  to  show  some  sympathy;  the  head, 
covered  with  light-yellow  locks,  with  its  sharply-chiselled 
features  and  large  Eoman  nose,  was,  now  that  it  was  illumined 
with  earnest  thought,  no  longer  so  homely  and  uninteresting. 

The  countenance  of  the  landgravine  was  expressive  of  the 
closest  attention,  and  the  reading  of  “ Don  Carlos”  affected 
her  so  profoundly,  that  she  had  recourse  to  her  handkerchief 
to  wipe  the  tears  of  emotion  from  her  eyes. 

At  times  Charles  August  could  not  repress  an  exclamation 
of  delight,  a loud  bravo ; and  when  Schiller  arose  from  his 
8eat^  after  finishing  the  first  act,  Charles  August  walked  for- 


62 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


ward  to  thank  the  poet  with  a warm  pressure  of  the  hand, 
and  to  conduct  him  to  the  landgravine,  that  she  might  also 
express  her  thanks  and  sympathy. 

The  duke  then  took  the  poet’s  arm,  and  walked  with  him 
through  the  saloon,  to  the  disgust  of  the  courtiers,  who,  not- 
withstanding their  devotion,  found  it  somewhat  strange  that 
the  duke  could  so  demean  himself  as  to  walk  arm-in-arm  with 
a man  without  birth  or  name. 

But  of  course  this  was  a natural  consequence  of  the  mania 
after  geniuses  which  reigned  in  Weimar;  such  abnormities 
should  no  longer  excite  surprise.  Was  there  not  at  the  court 
in  Weimar  so  variegated  an  admixture  of  well-born  and  ill- 
born,  that  one  ran  the  risk  of  encountering  at  any  moment  a 
person  who  was  not  entitled  to  be  there?  Had  not  the  duke 
carried  his  disregard  of  etiquette  so  far,  that  he  had  made 
Wolfgang  Goethe,  the  son  of  a citizen  of  Frankfort,  his  privy- 
councillor,  and  an  intimate  associate?  And  was  it  not  well 
known  that  his  mother,  the  Duchess  Amelia,  as  well  as  him- 
self, never  made  a journey  without  picking  up  some  genius 
on  the  road  for  their  establishment  at  Weimar? 

This  time  Frederick  Schiller  was  the  genius  whom  the 
duke  desired  to  recruit.  That  was  quite  evident,  for  the  duke 
had  been  standing  with  the  poet  for  more  than  a quarter  of 
an  hour  in  a window-niche,  and  they  were  conversing  with 
vivacity.  It  was  ofEensive  and  annoying  to  see  this  Mr. 
Schiller  standing  before  the  duke,  with  a proud  bearing  and 
perfect  composure;  and  conversing  with  him  without  the 
slightest  embarrassment. 

But  the  duke  seemed  to  be  greatly  interested,  and  his  coun- 
tenance expressed  lively  sympathy  and  kindliness. 

‘‘  I believe  that  destiny  has  intrusted  you  with  a great  mis- 
sion, Mr.  Schiller,”  said  the  duke,  when  the  poet  had  given 
him  a brief  and  terse  account  of  the  continuation  and  con- 
tents of  his  “ Don  Carlos.”  “ I believe  that  you  are  destined 
to  be  the  poet-preacher  of  the  people;  and  to  refresh  the 
hearts  and  enliven  the  imagination  of  the  degenerate  Ger- 


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63 


mans;  and  I prophesy  a great  future  for  you!  Your  aim  is  a 
noble  one.  You  desire  not  only  to  assign  to  the  purely 
human,  but  also  to  the  ideal,  its  proper  sphere  in  this  world; 
and  your  ‘Don  Carlos’  is  an  open  combat  between  the  purely 
human  and  ideal,  against  materialism  and  custom.  Through 
it  you  will  make  many  enemies  among  the  higher  classes,  and 
acquire  many  friends  among  the  masses;  and,  although  you 
will  not  be  the  favorite  of  princes,  you  will  certainly  be  be- 
loved by  the  people.  For  the  judgment  of  the  people  is  good 
and  sound,  and  it  will  always  give  its  sympathies  to  the  cham- 
pion of  the  purely  human,  as  opposed  to  the  ridiculous 
assumptions  of  etiquette  and  prejudice.  But  I tell  you  before- 
hand, that,  in  so-called  noble  society,  you  will,  with  great 
difficulty,  have  to  fight  your  way  step  by  step.” 

“ I have  been  accustomed  to  such  warfare  since  my  earliest 
youth,”  said  Schiller,  smiling.  “ Fate  has  not  given  me  a bed 
of  roses,  and  Care  has  as  yet  been  the  only  friend  who  stood 
faithfully  at  my  side.” 

“You  forget  the  Muses,”  cried  the  duke,  with  vivacity. 
“ It  seems  to  me  that  you  have  no  right  to  complain  of  a want 
of  attention  on  the  part  of  these  ladies!” 

“ True,  your  highness,”  responded  Schiller  earnestly;  “ they 
have  at  times  been  graciously  inclined,  and  I am  indebted  to 
them  for  some  of  the  most  delightful  hours  of  my  life.” 

“ Nor  has  the  favor  of  earthly  goddesses  and  Muses  been 
wanting  to  the  inspired  poet’s  happiness,”  said  the  duke,  and 
he  laughed  loudly  when  he  saw  Schiller  blush  and  cast  his 
eyes  down. 

“ Oh,  I see,”  he  cried  gayly,  “you  have  earthly  Muses  also, 
your  ideal  has  become  reality ! Could  there  be  any  connection 
between  this  and  the  songs  of  praise  which  Madame  von  Kalb 
wrote  me  concerning  you?” 

“ Your  highness,  I really  do  not  understand  your  meaning.” 

“Or  rather,  will  not  understand  it!  But  we  will  not  ex- 
amine the  affair  any  closer.  Madame  von  Kalb  has  certainly 
made  it  my  duty  to  interest  myself  for  her  poet,  and  I thank 


64 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


her  for  having  made  me  acquainted  with  you.  And  now  I 
should  like  to  give  a proof  of  my  gratitude,  and  it  would  afford 
me  pleasure  to  have  you  tell  me  in  what  manner  I can  be  use- 
ful to  you/' 

“Your  kind  and  gracious  words  have  already  been  of  great 
benefit  to  me,"  said  Schiller,  heartily;  “your  goodness  has 
shed  a ray  of  sunshine  into  my  sometimes  cold  and  cheerless 
heart." 

“ Your  heart  is  never  cold,  Schiller,  for  the  fire  of  poetry 
burns  there.  But  in  your  little  chamber  it  may  sometimes  be 
cold  and  cheerless.  That  I can  well  believe,  for  when  the 
gods  rain  down  blessings  upon  the  poet  they  generally  forget 
but  one  thing,  but  that  is  the  one  thing  needful,  money! 
The  gods  generally  lay  but  one  sort  of  capital  in  the  cradle  of 
mortal  man,  either  a capital  in  mind  or  one  of  more  material 
value ; and  truly  he  must  be  a great  favorite  to  whom  they 
give  both." 

“Yes,  a very  great  favorite,"  murmured  Schiller,  in  a low 
voice ; and  he  read  in  the  prince’s  countenance  that  he  was 
thinking  of  his  favorite,  Wolfgang  Goethe,  who  had  arisen 
like  a meteor  before  Schiller’s  gaze  at  the  time  he  visited  the 
Charles  School  in  Stuttgart,  in  company  with  the  duke,  to 
witness  the  distribution  of  prizes  to  the  scholars  of  this  in- 
stitution. While  the  scholar,  Frederick  Schiller,  was  receiv- 
ing a prize  which  had  been  awarded  him,  the  gaze  of  Goethe’s 
large  eyes  was  fixed  upon  him,  but  only  with  the  composed 
expression  of  a great  man  who  wished  him  well  and  con- 
descended to  evince  sympathy.  This  look  had  sunk  deep  into 
Schiller’s  heart,  and  he  thought  of  it  now  as  he  stood  before 
the  duke  in  the  palace  of  Darmstadt — the  duke,  who  could 
be  a friend  to  Goethe,  but  to  him  only  a patron  and  an  alms- 
giver." 

“I  desire  to  be  of  service  to  you  if  I can,"  said  the  duke, 
who,  for  some  time,  had  been  silently  regarding  Schiller, 
whose  eyes  were  cast  down  thoughtfully.  “ Have  you  any 
wish,  my  dear  Mr.  Schiller,  that  I can  perhaps  gratify?  I am 


THE  TITLE. 


65 


:j.ertainly  not  a mighty  prince,  and  unfortunately  not  a rich 
one,  but  if  I can  help  you  in  any  way,  I will  gladly  do  so.” 

Schiller  raised  his  head  quickly,  and  his  eye  met  the  in- 
quiring look  of  the  duke  with  a proud  gaze.  Not  for  all  the 
world  would  he  have  told  the  prince  of  his  distress  and  want, 
would  he  have  stood  on  the  floor  of  that  palace  as  an  humble 
beggar,  soliciting  alms  for  the  journey  through  life! 

Your  highness,  I repeat  it,  your  friendly  reception  and 
your  sympathy  have  already  been  a great  assistance  to  me.” 

The  duke’s  countenance  brightened,  and  he  breathed 
freer,  as  if  a burden  had  fallen  from  his  soul.  “ And  this 
assistance  shall  never  be  wanting,  of  that  you  may  be  assured. 
Every  one  shall  learn  that  Charles  August,  of  Weimar,  is 
happy  to  know  the  German  poet,  Frederick  Schiller,  and  that 
he  counts  him  among  those  who  are  dear  to  him.  A German 
duke  was  your  tyrant;  a German  prince  drove  you  out  into 
the  world,  therefore  it  is  just  and  right  that  another  German 
duke  should  show  you  friendship,  and  endeavor  to  make  your 
path  in  life  a little  smoother.  I will  be  ready  to  do  so  at  all 
times,  and  to  testify  to  my  high  opinion  of  yourself  and  your 
talents  before  the  whole  world,  your  tyrannical  prince  in- 
cluded. And  a proof  of  it  shall  be  given  you  before  you  leave 
Darmstadt!  For  the  present,  farewell,  and  if  you  should 
come  to  Weimar  at  any  time,  do  not  forget  to  pay  your  good 
friend,  Charles  August,  a visit!  You  will  not  leave  until  to- 
morrow morning,  I suppose?” 

“No,  your  highness,  not  until  to-morrow  morning.” 

“Well,  then,  my  dear  Mr.  Schiller,  you  will  hear  from  me 
this  evening.” 

Schiller  returned  to  his  hotel  in  a thoughtful  mood.  What 
could  the  duke’s  words  mean?  What  token  of  esteem  would 
Charles  August  give  him?  Perhaps  even  an  appointment. 
Ah,  and  if  ever  so  unimportant  a one,  it  would  still  be  an 
alleviation  of  relief.  Perhaps  the  duke  only  intended  to 
offer  him  the  use  of  one  of  his  unoccupied  castles,  in  order 
that  he  might  flnish  his  “Don  Carlos”  in  peaceful  seclusion. 


66 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


Well,  that  also  would  be  a blessing,  a benefit!  The  homeless 
one  would  then  have  a resting-place  from  which  he  could  not 
be  driven,  where  he  would  not  be  assailed  by  the  cares  and 
vexations  of  life.  The  hours  dragged  on  sluggishly  in  the 
bare,  uncomfortable  little  room  at  the  hotel,  and  the  poet  tor- 
mented himself  with  suppositions  and  questions,  while  he 
listened  attentively  to  hear  the  footstep  of  the  expected  mes- 
senger of  the  duke. 

At  last,  after  hours  of  waiting,  a knock  was  heard  at  the 
door,  and  a ducal  lackey  handed  Schiller  a large  sealed  docu- 
ment. It  seemed  to  regard  him  with  a right  official  and 
solemn  look  with  its  great  seal  of  state  bearing  the  inscription, 
“Ducal  private  cabinet,”  and  the  poet’s  feelings  were  of  the 
same  nature  when  he  opened  it  after  the  lackey’s  departure. 
What  could  it  be  that  the  duke  offered  him,  an  appointment 
or  a retreat? 

An  expression  of  astonishment  and  surprise  was  depicted 
on  Schiller’s  countenance  as  he  read  the  document;  his  brow 
darkened,  and  he  let  the  paper  fall  to  the  table.  The  duke 
offered  him  neither  an  appointment  nor  a retreat.  He  gave 
him  a title,  the  title  of  a ducal  counsellor.  The  secretary  of 
the  cabinet  made  known  the  generous  determination  of  his 
master,  and  informed  him  that  the  document  appointing  him 
to  this  office  would  be  made  out  in  official  form  and  forwarded 
to  him  on  the  duke’s  return  to  Weimar.  Frederick  Schiller 
should,  however,  be  enabled  to  wear  the  title  so  graciously 
conferred,  and  call  himself  “ ducal  counsellor”  from  that  hour. 

While  reading  it  for  the  second  time,  the  poet  laughed  de- 
risively. This  was  the  solution  of  the  riddle.  He  who  had 
scarcely  known  how  to  counsel  himself,  was  now  the  counsel- 
lor of  a prince  who  would  probably  never  desire  his  counsel. 
He  who  was  tormented  with  cares,  who  had  no  home,  had 
nothing  he  could  call  his  own  besides  his  manuscripts — he 
was  now  the  possessor  of  a title. 

How  strange  the  contrast!  The  tragedy  which  waged  war 
against  princely  prerogatives,  etiquette,  and  ceremony,  in 


THE  TITLE. 


67 


favor  of  humanity,  equality  before  the  law,  and  nobility  of 
soul — this  tragedy  was  to  bear,  as  its  first  fruit,  the  favor  of 
a prince. 

It  was  strange — it  looked  almost  like  irony,  and  yet ! — He 
thought  of  Charlotte  von  Kalb — she  would  rejoice  to  see  him 
thus  honored  by  a Germpn  prince.  He  thought  of  his  old 
parents,  to  whom  it  would  undoubtedly  be  a great  satisfaction 
to  know  that  the  former  regimental-surgeon  of  the  Duke  of 
Wurtemberg  had  become  so  distinguished.  It  would  prove 
to  them  that  their  Fritz,  of  whom  the  severe  father  had  often 
despaired,  had  nevertheless  attained  honor  and  respectability 
in  the  eyes  of  the  world. 

Well,  then,  let  it  be  so!  A little  appointment  would  cer- 
tainly have  been  better,  and  some  hunting-castle  as  a retreat 
would  probably  have  furthered  the  completion  of  “ Don 
Carlos.'*  But  one  must  be  contented,  nevertheless.  The  lit- 
tle was  not  to  be  despised,  for  it  was  an  honor  and  a public 
acknowledgment,  and  would,  perhaps,  have  the  effect  of  in- 
fusing into  the  directors  a little  more  respect  for  the  poet, 
whose  dramas  they  often  maltreated  and  injured  by  poor  and 
careless  representation. 

With  a smile,  Schiller  folded  the  document  and  laid  it 
aside.  “Well,"  said  he  to  himself,  in  a low  voice,  “I  enter- 
tain the  proud  hope  that  I am  a poet  ‘by  the  grace  of  God!’ 
Moreover,  I have  now  become  a counsellor  by  the  grace  of  a 
duke.  All  that  I now  wish  is,  that  I may  at  last  become  a 
poet  and  a counsellor,  by  the  grace  of  the  people,  and  that 
they  may  approve  my  works,  and  hold  me  worthy  of  the  title 
to  their  love  and  honor.  To  be  the  people’s  counsellor,  is 
truly  an  honor  above  all  honors.  My  soul  longs  for  this  holy 
and  beautiful  title.  With  all  that  I possess  in  mind  and  tal- 
ent, in  strength  and  energy,  I will  endeavor  to  deserve  it,  and 
to  become  that  which  is  the  poet’s  greatest  and  noblest  rec- 
ompense— the  teacher  and  counsellor  of  the  people!" 


88 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

ADIEU  TO  MANNHEIM! 

Schiller  had  returned  to  Mannheim  as  ducal  counsellor  of 
Weimar.  Charlotte  von  Kalb  recei/ed  this  intelligence  with 
so  much  Joy,  that  Schiller  could  not  help  feeling  pleased 
himself.  He  threw  his  arms  around  ' .er,  and  demanded  a 
kiss  as  a condition  of  his  retention  of  the  title.  Charlotte 
hlushingly  hid  her  face  on  his  bosom,  but  he  gently  raised  her 
head,  and  pressed  an  ardent  kiss  on  the  lips  which  uttered  no 
refusal.  But  Charlotte  now  demanded  that  Schiller  should 
leave  her;  and  when  he  refused,  and  begged  and  implored 
that  he  might  be  permitted  to  remain,  her  eyes  glistened,  and 
a glowing  color  suffused  itself  over  her  cheeks. 

Oh,  Schiller,  you  know,  not  what  you  are  doing  and  what 
you  demand!  Do  you  not  see  that  an  abyss  lies  between  us?'' 

“I  see  it,  Charlotte;  but  the  arm  of  Love  is  strong  and 
mighty,  and  he  who  truly  loves,  carries  the  loved  woman  over 
all  abysses,  or  else  precipitates  himself  with  her  into  the 
yawning  chasm?" 

“ There  is  another  alternative,  Schiller,  and  a terrible  one. 
The  abyss  is  crossed,  and  they  are  Joined;  and  then  afterward 
his  illusion  vanishes — he  is  undeceived.  The  ideal  has  been 
transformed  into  a very  ordinary  woman,  whom  he  scorns, 
because  her  love  was  dearer  and  holier  to  her  than  her  virtue. 
She  feels  his  scorn,  and  the  abyss  over  which  he  had  borne  her 
becomes  the  grave  in  which  she  voluntarily  precipitates  her- 
self, in  order  to  escape  from  him  she  had  loved.  Oh,  Schil- 
ler, if  the  eye  which  has  heretofore  regarded  me  lovingly 
should  ever  cast  upon  me  a glance  of  contempt ! It  would 
crush  me,  and  I should  die!  Yet,  in  dying,  my  lips  would 
denounce  him  who  had  known  how  to  love,  but  liad  not  kept 
faith ; and  would  arraign  him  as  a traitor  and  murderer  be- 
fore the  Judgment-seat  of  God!  Oh,  Sehiller,  I warn  you 


ADIEU  TO  MANNHEIM! 


69 


once  more  not  to  enkindle  a fire  in  my  breast  which  can  never 
be  extinguished  or  repressed  when  once  in  fiames,  but  will 
blaze  upward  grandly  and  proudly,  setting  aside  all  thought 
of  the  world  and  its  rules  and  prejudices.  We  are  now  walk- 
ing on  the  verge  of  the  abyss;  you  on  the  one  side,  I on  the 
other.  But  our  voices  reach  each  other;  we  can  see  each 
other’s  faces,  and  our  glances  can  meet  in  loving  friendship. 
You  are  free  to  go  where  you  will;  and  if  your  path  in  life 
should  lead  you  aside  from  the  road  on  which  I am  journey- 
ing, I will  look  after  you  and  weep,  but  I will  make  you  no 
reproaches!  Think  of  this,  Schiller,  and  be  contented  that 
Charlotte  should  call  you  by  the  name  of  friend ! Do  not  de- 
mand that  she  should  give  you  another  name,  which  you 
would  now  bless,  but  hereafter  curse!  Flee  now,  while  it  is 
yet  time ; and  we  shall  still  have  the  happy  remembrance  of 
the  beautiful  days  of  our  friendship.  Let  us  await  the  future 
in  quiet  resignation,  and  sustain  ourselves  with  recollections 
of  the  past!” 

“ You  are  in  a strange  humor  to-day,  Charlotte,”  said  Schil- 
ler, sadly.  “Your  eyes  are  so  threatening,  that  I would 
almost  be  afraid  of  you,  if  I did  not  know  that  my  Titaness 
is  still  a gentle,  loving  woman  in  spite  of  her  fiery  enthusi- 
asm. No,  Charlotte,  you  accuse  yourself  unjustly.  No,  you 
would  never  curse  the  man  you  had  loved ; in  death  you  would 
bless  him  for  the  love  he  had  once  given  you.  You  would  not 
denounce,  but  pity  and  excuse  him  whom  stern  necessity  com- 
pelled to  separate  from  you — from  w'hat  is  dearest  to  him  on 
earth.  You  would  know  that  his  path  was  bleak  and  lonely, 
and  that,  like  the  faces  in  Dante’s  ‘Inferno,’  he  could  only 
look  back  at  the  past  with  a tearful  glance  while  wandering 
into  the  dreary  future.  This  you  would  do,  Charlotte.  I 
know  you  better  than  you  know  yourself.  The  woman  never 
curses  the  man  she  has  truly  loved;  she  pardons  and  still  loves 
him  when  the  stream  of  life  surges  in  between,  and  forces 
him  to  leave  her.” 

“ For  those  who  truly  love,  who  have  plighted  troth,  there 


70 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


is  no  such  compulsion/'  cried  Charlotte,  her  countenance 
flushed  with  indignation.  “ If  you  say  so,  Schiller,  you  do 
not  know  what  love  is.  You  make  light  of  the  holiest  feel- 
ings when  you  believe  that  it  could  ever  be  extinguished — 
that  the  necessities  of  life  could  ever  separate  two  hearts 
eternally  and  indissolubly  united  in  love." 

“How  strangely  moved  you  are  to-day,  Charlotte!"  an- 
swered Schiller,  his  countenance  darkening.  “ I came  here 
with  a heart  full  of  joy,  and  had  so  much  to  impart  to  you ! 
I came  as  to  a happy  and  peaceful  retreat.  But  I now  see 
that  the  time  was  badly  chosen,  and  that  Charlotte  will  not 
understand  me  to-day.  Oh,  why  is  it,  my  dear,  that  we 
human  beings  are  all  like  Erostratus,  who  hurled  the  firebrand 
into  the  holy  temple  of  the  gods,  and  why  do  we  all  desire  to 
unveil  the  mysterious  picture  in  the  temple  of  Isis!" 

“ Because  we  wish  to  look  at  the  truth,"  she  cried,  passion- 
ately. 

“The  truth  is  death,"  sighed  Schiller,  “error  is  life;  and 
woe  to  us  if  we  are  not  satisfied  with  the  beautiful  illusion 
that  adorns  and  disguises  life,  and  casts  a veil  over  death! 
I am  going,  Charlotte.  It  is  better  that  I should,  for  you 
have  saddened  me,  and  awakened  painful  thoughts  in  my 
breast.  Farewell  for  the  present;  and  when  I come  again 
to-morrow,  be  kind  and  gracious  to  me,  Charlotte,  as  you 
always  are  at  heart!" 

He  took  his  hat,  greeted  her  with  a mournful  smile,  and 
left  the  room.  Charlotte’s  eyes  followed  him  with  a glance 
of  dismay. 

“He  does  not  love  me,"  she  cried  in  despair.  “He  does 
not  love  me ! If  he  loved  me,  he  would  not  have  left  me 
without  plighting  his  eternal  faith.  All  that  I wished  to  hear 
was,  that  he  desired  an  eternity  of  love;  but  he  drew  back  in 
dismay  and  left  me.  He  does  not  love  me,  and  I,  0 my  God, 
I love  him !" 

She  sank  down  on  her  knees,  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands,  and  cried  bitterly. 


ADIEU  TO  MANNHEIM! 


71 


And  Schiller’s  thoughts  were  also  of  a bitter,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  somewhat  disquieting  nature.  He  avoided  seeing 
any  one,  and  remained  in  his  lonely  room  the  entire  day. 
He  walked  to  and  fro  restlessly ; from  time  to  time,  he  seated 
himself  at  the  table  and  wrote  a few  lines,  and  then  arose, 
and,  resuming  his  walking,  either  talked  to  himself  or  was 
lost  in  thought. 

Charlotte  also  kept  her  chamber,  and  avoided  all  intercourse 
with  others.  Late  in  the  evening,  a knock  was  heard  at  her 
door,  and  her  maid  announced  that  a letter  had  arrived  from 
the  Counsellor  Schiller. 

Charlotte  opened  the  door,  took  the  letter,  and  ordered 
lights  to  be  brought  in.  She  then  tore  the  cover  from  Schil- 
ler’s letter;  in  it  she  found  a little  note  on  which  the  few 
words  had  been  hastily  written : ‘‘  Dear  Charlotte ! — I have 
written  down  the  thoughts  which  our  conversation  of  to-day 
awakened  in  my  bosom;  and  send  them  to  you,  for  they  be- 
long to  you.  May  we  never  share  the  fate  of  the  poor  youth 
in  the  temple  of  Sais ! To  seek  the  truth  is  to  kill  love,  and 
yet  love  is  the  most  beautiful  truth ; and  true  it  is  also  that 
I love  you,  Charlotte!  Believe  this,  and  let  us  leave  the  great 
Isis  veiled!  Fkederick  Schiller.” 

After  reading  this,  Charlotte  unfolded  the  large  sheet 
which  was  also  contained  in  the  cover.  It  was  a poem,  and 
bore  the  title,  “ The  Veiled  Picture  at  Sais.” 

Charlotte  read  it  again  and  again,  and  her  soul  grew  sadder 
and  sadder.  He  does  not  love  me,  ” she  repeated,  softly.  “ If 
he  loved  me  he  would  not  have  written,  but  would  have  come 
to  weep  at  my  feet ! That  would  have  been  a living  poem ! 
Oh,  Schiller,  I am  the  unhappy  youth ; I have  seen  the  truth ! 
My  happiness  is  forever  gone,  and,  like  him,  I will  go  to  the 
grave  in  despair.  I exclaim,  with  your  youth,  ‘Woe  to  him 
who  commits  a crime  in  order  to  find  the  truth ! It  can 
never  give  him  joy!’  ” 

When  Schiller  returned  on  the  following  morning,  Char- 
lotte gave  him  a warm  welcome,  extended  both  hands,  and 


72 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


regarded  him  with  a tender  smile,  repeating  the  words  from 
his  letter,  “ Let  us  leave  the  great  Isis  veiled.” 

Schiller  uttered  a cry  of  joy,  fell  on  his  knees  at  Charlotte’s 
feet,  kissed  her  hands,  and  swore  that  he  loved  her  and  her 
only,  and  that  he  would  remain  true  to  her  in  spite  of  all 
abysses  and  chasms ! 

But  the  vows  of  mankind  are  swept  away  like  the  leaves  of 
the  forest;  what  to-day  was  green  and  blooming,  to-morrow 
fades  and  dies ! 

Charlotte  may  have  been  right  when  she  said  that  Schiller 
could  love,  but  could  not  keep  faith,  for,  after  scarcely  two 
months  had  elapsed  since  his  return  from  Darmstadt,  and  the 
date  of  this  interview  with  Charlotte,  Schiller  wrote  to  his 
new  friend  Körner,  in  Leipsic,  as  follows : “ I can  no  longer 
remain  in  Mannheim.  I write  to  you  in  unspeakable  distress 
of  heart.  I can  no  longer  remain  here.  I have  carried  this 
thought  about  with  me  for  the  past  twelve  days,  like  a de- 
termination to  leave  the  world.  Mankind,  circumstances, 
heaven,  and  earth,  are  against  me;  and  I am  separated  here 
from  what  might  be  dearer  to  me  than  all  by  the  proprieties 
and  observances  of  the  world.  Leipsic  appears  to  me  in  my 
dreams  like  the  rosy  morning  beyond  the  wooded  mountain- 
range;  and  in  my  life  I have  entertained  no  thought  with 
such  prophetic  distinctness  as  the  one  that  I should  be  happy 
in  Leipsic.  Hitherto  fate  has  obstructed  my  plans.  My 
heart  and  muse  were  alike  compelled  to  succumb  to  necessity. 
Just  such  a revolution  of  destiny  is  necessary  to  make  me  a 
new  man,  to  make  me  begin  to  become  a poet.”  And  his  dis- 
tant friend  in  Leipsic  responded  to  his  cry  of  distress  with  a 
deed  of  true  friendship.  He  invited  Schiller  to  visit  himself 
and  his  friends  in  Leipsic;  and,  in  order  that  no  moneyed 
embarrassments  should  delay  Schiller’s  departure,  Körner 
forwarded  him  a draft  for  a sum  sufiicient  to  defray  his  travel- 
ling-expenses  and  pay  off  his  most  pressing  debts. 


PLANS  FOR  THE  FUTURE. 


73 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

PLANS  FOR  THE  FUTURE. 

The  preparations  for  his  departure  were  soon  made. 
Schiller  had  completely  severed  his  connection  with  the  thea- 
tre at  Mannheim  several  weeks  before.  The  actors  were  all 
inimical  to  him,  because  he  had  dared  to  take  them  to  task 
in  his  journal,  The  Thalia^  for  having,  as  he  said,  so  badly 
maltreated  his  tragedy,  “ Intrigues  and  Love.'*  The  director, 
Mr.  von  Dalberg,  had  long  since  considered  himself  insulted 
and  injured  by  the  free  and  independent  behavior  of  him  who 
dared  array  his  dignity  and  pride  as  a poet  against  the  dig- 
nity of  the  director’s  office  and  the  pride  of  aristocracy.  This 
gentleman  made  no  attempt  whatever  to  retain  Schiller  in 
Mannheim.  Schiller  had  to  say  farewell  to  but  few  acquaint- 
ances and  friends,  and  it  was  soon  over.  He  packed  his  little 
trunk,  and  was  now  ready  to  leave  on  the  following  morning. 
There  were  only  two  persons  to  whom  he  still  wished  to  bid 
adieu,  and  these  were  Charlotte  von  Kalb  and  Andrew  Strei- 
cher. He  had  agreed  to  spend  the  last  hours  of  his  stay  with 
Streicher  at  his  home,  and  as  every  thing  was  now  in  order, 
Schiller  hurried  to  Charlotte’s  dwelling  as  evening  approached. 

She  was  sitting  alone  in  her  room  when  he  entered;  the 
noise  of  the  closing  door  aroused  her  from  her  reverie,  and 
she  turned  her  head,  but  did  not  arise  to  meet  him ; she  gave 
him  no  word  of  welcome,  and  gazed  at  him  sadly.  Schiller 
also  said  nothing,  but  walked  slowly  across  the  wide  room  to 
the  sofa  on  which  she  was  seated,  and  stood  regarding  her 
mournfully. 

Neither  of  them  spoke ; deep  silence  reigned  in  the  gloomy 
chamber,  and  yet  their  souls  were  communing,  and  one  and 
the  same  wail  was  in  both  hearts,  the  wail  ever  approaching 
separation  and  parting. 

“ Schiller,  you  stand  before  me  like  the  future/*  said  Char- 


74 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


lotte,  after  a long  pause.  ‘‘Yes,  like  the  future — grand, 
gloomy,  and  cold — your  countenance  clouded.” 

“ Clouded  like  my  soul,”  sighed  Schiller,  as  he  slowly  sank 
on  his  knees  before  Charlotte.  She  permitted  him  to  do  so, 
and  offered  no  resistance  when  he  took  her  hand  and  held  it 
firmly  within  his  own. 

“ Charlotte,  my  beloved,  my  dear  Charlotte,  I have  come  to 
take  leave  of  you.  I must  leave  Mannheim.” 

“Why?” 

“ My  position  here  has  become  untenable.  I am  at  enmity 
with  the  authorities  of  the  theatre,  and  I no  longer  desire  to 
waste  my  time  and  talents  on  such  ungrateful  showmen. 
Mr.  von  Dalberg’s  short-lived  courtesy  is  long  since  ended, 
and  he  does  not  take  my  side  in  the  difficulty  with  the  pre- 
suming actors.  I am  tired  of  this  petty  warfare,  and  I am 
going.” 

“ Why?”  she  repeated. 

“ You  still  ask,  Charlotte;  have  I not  just  told  you?” 

“ I have  heard  pretences,  Schiller,  but  not  the  truth.  I 
wish  to  know  the  truth,  and  I am  entitled  to  demand  the 
truth.  The  time  has  arrived  to  tear  the  veil  from  the  statue 
of  Isis!  We  must  look  the  truth  in  the  face,  even  if  death 
should  follow  in  its  train!  Schiller,  why  are  you  leaving 
Mannheim?  Why  are  you  leaving  the  place  where  I live?” 

“ Ah,  Charlotte,  this  is  a bitter  necessity,  but  I must  bear 
it.  A mysterious  power  compels  me  to  leave  here.  Who 
knows  where  the  star  of  his  destiny  will  lead  him?  We  must 
follow  its  guiding  light,  although  all  is  dark  within  and 
around  us ! True,  I had  thought  that  it  would  be  the  great- 
est delight  of  life  to  be  ever  at  your  side,  to  share  with  you 
all  thought  and  feeling,  our  lives  flowing  together  like  two 
brooks  united  in  one,  and  running  its  course  through  the 
bright  sunshine  with  a gentle  murmur!  But  these  brooks 
have  become  rivers,  and  their  waves,  lashed  into  fury  by  pas- 
sion, brook  no  control,  and  break  through  all  restraints  and 
barriers.  Charlotte,  I go,  because  I dare  not  stay!  I will 


PLANS  FOR  THE  FUTURE. 


75 


tell  you  all ; you  demand  the  truth,  and  you  shall  hear  it ! 
Charlotte,  I go  for  your  sake  and  for  mine!  You  are  mar- 
ried. I go!  Your  pure  light  has  set  fire  to  my  soul;  have  I 
not  reason  to  dread  a future  based  on  falsehood  and  decep- 
tion? Your  presence  infused  into  my  bosom  an  enthusiasm 
before  unknown,  but  to  this  enthusiasm,  peace  was  wanting.'’ 

“ Oh,  remain,  Schiller,  and,  if  we  desire  it,  we  can  both 
find  this  peace — the  peace  of  friendship!” 

No,  Charlotte,  our  heart-strings  are  familiar  with  a 
greater  harmony!” 

Well,  if  it  be  so,  let  the  strings  resound  with  the  harmony 
of  united  souls!  Oh,  my  friend,  if  we  separate,  we  will  no 
longer  be  to  each  other  what  we  now  are.  I will  not  com- 
plain, and  will  not  unveil  the  anguish  of  my  soul  before  you ; 
and  yet,  Schiller,  remain,  I implore  you ! When  my  candle 
is  brought  in,  I will  no  longer  enjoy  its  light;  all  will  still  be 
dark  around  me,  for  the  evening  will  no  longer  bring  you,  my 
friend!” 

I can,  and  will  be,  your  friend  no  longer,  Charlotte,  and 
therefore  I am  going ! I will  be  all,  or  nothing ! This  sus- 
pension midway  betwixt  heaven  and  earth  is  destroying  me ! 
My  soul  glows  with  passion,  and  you  inhale  it  with  every  breath 
of  life.  You  have  not  the  courage  to  face  the  truth!” 

“ I say,  with  you,  I will  be  all,  or  nothing,”  she  exclaimed, 
passionately.  “ Truth  and  falsehood  cannot  exist  together ; 
and  it  would  be  acting  a falsehood  if  I gave  my  heart  unlim- 
ited freedom,  while  my  hands  are  in  chains!  All,  or  nothing! 
Only  no  hypocrisy ! I will  freely  acknowledge  my  love  to  the 
whole  world,  or  I will  cover  it  with  the  veil  of  duty  and  resig- 
nation. But  I will  not  sin  under  cover  of  this  veil ! Oh, 
Schiller,  our  life  until  now  was  a bond  of  truth,  and  you  wish 
to  sever  it.  Fate  sent  you  to  me;  moments  of  the  purest 
delight  were  vouchsafed  us ; and  is  the  cup  of  happiness  to  be 
dashed  from  our  lips  now?” 

Schiller  did  not  reply  at  once,  but  bowed  down  over  Char- 
lotte’s hand,  and  pressed  it  to  his  burning  brow. 

6 


76 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


“ Above  all,”  he  said,  in  a low  voice,  “ above  all,  I know  that 
it  is  in  the  bloom  of  youth  only  that  we  truly  live  and  feel. 
In  youth,  the  soul  is  illumined  with  light  and  glory;  and  my 
heart  tells  me  that  thou  canst  never  dim  its  longing.” 

“‘Thou,’  you  say,”  she  whisperd  softly,  “then  I will  also 
say  ‘thou!’  Truthfulness  knows  no  ‘you!’  The  blessed  are 
called  ‘thou !’  * It  is  a seal  which  unites  closely,  and  therefore 
we  will  impress  it  upon  our  holy  and  eternal  union!” 

She  threw  her  arms  around  Schiller’s  neck — he  was  still 
kneeling  at  her  feet — and  pressed  a kiss  on  his  forehead.  He 
embraced  her  yet  more  tenderly,  and  pressed  impassioned 
kisses  upon  her  brow,  her  cheeks,  and  her  trembling  lips. 

“Farewell,  thou  only  one,  farewell!” 

“Oh,  Frederick,”  she  sobbed,  “was  this  thy  parting  kiss?” 

“ Yes,  Charlotte,  I must  go!  But  you  will  be  present  with 
me  in  my  every  thought.” 

“And  yet  you  go,  Frederick?” 

“ Destiny  so  ordains,  and  I must  obey!  The  world  demands 
of  me  the  use  of  my  talent — I demand  of  the  world  its  favor.” 

“And  when  you  have  achieved  this  favor,”  she  said,  plam- 
tively,  “ then  you  will  no  longer  care  for  love,  or  me!” 

“ You  should  not  say  so,  Charlotte,  for  you  do  not  believe 
it,”  said  Schiller,  angrily.  “Why  these  painful  words?  I 
lose  all  in  you,  but  you  lose  nothing  in  me!  You  are  so 
wayward — ah,  not  like  the  woman  I pictured  to  myself  in  the 
days  of  my  youth.” 

“ Oh,  Frederick,”  she  murmured,  “ do  you  not  know  that  I 
love  you,  and  you  only?” 

“ I have  hoped  so  in  many  moments  of  torment  when  you 
treated  me  coldly ; but  only  for  the  last  few  days  have  I felt 
assured  of  it,  and,  on  that  account,  loved,  adored  woman,  the 
words  must  be  spoken,  therefore  I flee  from  you !” 

“You  know  that  I love  you,”  she  cried,  plaintively;  “you 
know  it,  and  yet  you  flee!” 

♦In  Germany,  the  word  “thou  ” is  frequently  used  instead  of  “you”  in  fam* 
Ihes  and  among  children,  and  intimate  and  dear  friends. 


PLANS  FOR  THE  FUTURE* 


77 


'‘Yes,  Charlotte,  I do,  because  the  waves  of  passion  are 
surging  high  in  my  breast,  and  will  destroy  me  if  I remain. 
Peaceful  love  is  the  only  atmosphere  suited  to  the  poet. 
Stormy  passion  distracts  his  thoughts  and  casts  a shade  on 
the  mirror  of  his  soul.” 

He  arose  and  walked  restlessly  to  and  fro.  It  had  grown 
dark  in  the  mean  while,  and  the  figure  of  her  friend  fiitted 
before  Charlotte’s  vision  like  a shadow,  but  her  eyes  were  fixed 
intently  on  the  shadow  which  was  nevertheless  the  only  light 
of  her  being. 

The  figure  now  stopped  before  her,  and  when  he  laid  his 
hand  on  her  shoulder  she  felt  the  electric  touch  thrill  her 
whole  being.  They  could  not  see  each  other’s  faces  on  account 
of  the  darkness. 

“Charlotte,”  said  Schiller,  deeply  moved,  “I  owe  you  a 
great  deal,  and  I can  never  forget  it.  My  youth  was  dreary; 
I became  familiar  with  error  and  sorrow  at  an  early  day,  and 
this  clouded  my  understanding  and  embittered  my  heart! 
And  then  my  genius  found  your  voice  to  utter  my  thoughts. 
You  were  my  inspired  Muse,  and  I loved  you,  and  would  be 
yours  forever  if  I had  the  courage  requisite  for  such  a love ! — 
the  courage  to  permit  m^yself  to  be  absorbed  in  this  passion ; 
to  desire  nothing  more,  to  be  nothing  more,  than  your  creat- 
ure, Charlotte ; the  vase  only  in  which  the  boundless  stream 
of  your  love  empties  itself.  But  this  cannot  remain  so ! My 
soul  must  be  peaceful  and  independent  of  this  power  which 
terrifies  and  delights  me  at  the  same  time.  He  only  is  free 
who  elevates  himself  above  passion,  and  the  man  who  aspires 
to  bend  Nature  to  his  will  must  be  free.” 

“You  are  governed  by  pride,”  sighed  Charlotte,  “and  pride 
has  no  confidence,  no  repose.  You  are  not  familiar  with  the 
sorrow  and  coldness  of  the  world,  or  you  would  remain  here 
with  her  who  feels  and  sympathizes  with  you ! Nothing  is 
more  terrible  in  its  self-infiicted  revenge  than  the  determi- 
nation to  disregard  the  promptings  of  the  heart  in  life.” 

“ I do  not  disregard  them,  Charlotte,  but  the  heart  must  not 


78 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


be  the  only  axis  on  which  my  life  revolves,  and  it  would  be,  if 
I remained  near  you,  you  divine  woman,  to  whom  my  heart 
and  soul  will  ever  lovingly  incline,  forgetting  all  else,  and  yet 
— I desire  your  friendship  only!” 

As  he  said  this  he  threw  his  arms  around  her,  raised  her  up 
from  the  sofa,  and  covered  her  face  with  kisses. 

“Oh,  Frederick,  you  are  crying!  I feel  your  tears  falling 
on  my  forehead!” 

“ Be  still,  Charlotte,  be  still,  and — love  me ! For  a single 
blissful  moment  love  me,  and  let  yourself  be  loved!” 

“I  love  you,  Frederick,”  she  cried,  passionately.  “You 
fill  my  soul  with  anguish  and  delight,  alternately.  You  love 
as  I do ! Only  love  alarms  you ; you  will  not  accord  to  a mortal 
that  which  is  divinely  beautiful ! Oh,  Schiller,  the  essence  of 
Divinity  is  within  us ; then  wherefore  should  our  love  not  be 
divinely  beautiful,  joyfully  renouncing  hope  and  desire  in  hu- 
mility and  resignation?” 

He  did  not  reply,  but  only  drew  her  closer  to  his  heart, 
bowed  down  his  head  on  her  shoulder,  and  sobbed. 

The  silence  which  now  reigned  in  the  dark  room  was  un- 
broken save  by  the  sobs  of  the  weeping  lovers. . After  a long 
and  painful  pause,  Schiller  raised  her  head  and  withdrew  his 
arms  from  Charlotte’s  figure. 

“ Let  us  have  light,”  said  he,  and  his  voice  now  had  a harsh 
sound — “ light,  that  I may  once  more  see  your  beloved  coun- 
tenance before  I leave!” 

“ No,  Frederick,  when  you  leave,  I will  no  longer  require 
light;  a cheerless  life  is  more  endurable  in  the  dark.  No 
light ! Let  us  part  in  darkness,  for  in  darkness  I am  doomed 
to  grope  my  way  hereafter,  but  the  light  of  your  countenance 
will  always  be  reflected  in  my  soul.  Good-night,  Frederick ! 
You  take  with  you  all  that  is  dear  to  me,  even  my  beautiful 
dreams.  The  most  lovely  visions  have  heretofore  surrounded 
my  bed  at  night;  but  now  they  will  follow  you,  for  they  came 
from  you,  and  were  the  thoughts  of  your  soul.  Your  thoughts, 
fly  from  me,  and  my  dreams  follow  them.  You  rob  my  day 


PLANS  FOR  THE  FUTURE. 


79 


of  its  sun,  and  my  night  of  its  dream.  Let  us  therefore  sepa- 
rate in  darkness!” 

‘‘Charlotte,”  said  he,  deeply  agitated,  “your  words  sound 
like  tones  from  a spirit- world,  and  the  past  seems  already  to  be 
leaving  me ! Oh,  do  not  go ; stay  with  me,  sweet  past,  happy 
present!  Stay  with  me,  soul  of  my  soul,  beloved  being! 
Wh'ire  are  you,  Charlotte — where  are  you?” 

She  did  not  reply.  Longingly  he  stretched  out  his  arms 
loward  her,  but  did  not  find  her ; he  found  empty  space  only. 

“ Charlotte,  come  for  the  last  time  to  my  heart!  Come! — 
let  me  inhale  from  your  lips  the  atmosphere  of  paradise!” 

No  reply.  He  seemed  to  see  a shadow  fiit  through  the 
darkness,  and  then  the  words,  “ Good-night,  Schiller!”  struck 
his  ear  like  the  low,  vibrating  tones  of  an  ^olian  harp. 

The  noise  of  an  opening  and  closing  door  could  be  heard, 
and  then  all  was  still. 

A groan  escaped  Schiller’s  breast;  he  felt  that  Charlotte 
had  left  him — that  he  was  alone. 

For  a moment  he  stood  still  and  listened,  hoping  she  would 
return ; but  the  silence  remained  unbroken. 

“Ah,”  murmured  Schiller,  “parting  is  like  death!  Ah, 
Charlotte,  I have  loved  you  dearly ! I — be  still,  my  heart,  no 
more  complaints!  It  must  be  so!” 

He  turned  slowly  and  walked  toward  the  door.  “ Farewell, 
Charlotte,  farewell!” 

No  reply.  It  seemed  to  be  only  the  echo  which  responded 
from  out  the  dark  space,  “Farewell!” 

Schiller  opened  the  door  and  rushed  out  into  the  still  night, 
and  through  the  lonely  streets,  unconscious  that  he  was  bare- 
headed, oblivious  of  having  left  his  hat  in  Charlotte’s  room. 
He  rushed  on,  heedless  of  the  raw  night  air  and  cutting 
wind. 

At  length  he  was  aroused  by  the  heavy  drops  of  rain  which 
were  falling  on  his  forehead.  The  cold  rain  awakened  him 
from  a last  painful  struggle  with  his  passion,  and  cooled  his 
head  and  heart  at  the  same  time. 


80 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


“ 0 God,  I thank  Thee  for  sending  down  the  waters  of 
heaven  to  cleanse  my  heart  from  passion  and  slavish  love,  and 
making  me  free  again ! And  now  I am  free ! — am  once  morq 
myself!  am  free!” 

Schiller  entered  Streicher’s  apartment  with  a cheerful 
countenance,  and  greeted  his  friend  heartily;  but  Andrew 
regarded  his  wet  clothing  and  dripping  hair  with  dis* 
may. 

“ Where  in  the  world  do  you  come  from,  Fritz?  You  look 
as  if  you  had  been  paying  the  Maid  of  the  Ehine  a visit,  and 
had  just  escaped  from  her  moist  embrace!” 

“ You  are,  perhaps,  right,  Andrew ! I have  just  taken  leave 
of  the  fair  maid  who  had  bewitched  me.” 

“ But  what  have  you  done  with  your  hat,  Fritz?  Did  you 
leave  it  with  the  maid  as  a souvenir?” 

You  are,  perhaps,  right  again,  Andrew.  I left  my  hat 
with  the  maid  as  a souvenir,  and  only  succeeded  in  slipping 
my  head  out  of  the  noose.” 

‘‘Be  kind  enough  to  speak  sensibly,”  said  Streicher,  “and 
tell  me  where  your  hat  is.” 

“ I have  told  you  already  I left  it  with  the  Maid  of  the  Ehine 
as  a souvenir.” 

“ I wish  you  had  not  done  so,”  said  Andrew,  in  grumbling 
tones.  “ You  had  better  have  left  her  a lock  of  your  yellow 
hair ; that  would  have  been  cheaper,  for  hair  grows  again,  but 
hats  must  be  bought.  Well,  fortunately  I happened  to  buy  a 
new  hat  to-day,  and  that  you  must  take,  of  course.” 

He  handed  Schiller  a bran-new  beaver  hat,  telling  him  to 
dry  his  disordered  locks  and  try  it  on. 

“Andrew,”  said  Schiller,  after  having  tried  the  hat  on,  and 
found  that  it  fitted  him  perfectly.  “ Andrew,  you  bought 
this  hat  for  yourself  to-day?” 

“ Yes,  for  myself,  of  course,  but  you,  wild  fellow,  come 
running  here  bareheaded,  and  no  resource  is  left  but  to  put 
my  beaver  on  your  head.” 

“ Come  here,  Andrew,”  said  Schiller,  smiling,  and  when  he 


PLANS  FOR  THE  FUTURE. 


81 


came  np,  Schiller  placed  the  hat  on  the  little  bald  head  and 
pressed  it  down  over  his  friend’s  eyes,  making  Streicher  a 
very  ludicrous  object. 

Schiller,  however,  did  not  laugh,  but  slowly  lifted  the  hat 
up,  and  looked  lovingly  into  the  abashed  and  mortified  coun- 
tenance of  his  friend.  “ Andrew,  I would  never  have  believed 
that  you  knew  how  to  tell  an  untruth!” 

“And  you  see  I acquitted  myself  badly  enough,”  growled 
Streicher.  “ And  bad  enough  it  is  that  you  should  compel  an 
honest  man  to  tamper  with  the  truth.  Your  hat  had  seen 
much  service  and  well  deserved  a substitute,  but  if  I had  had 
the  presumption  to  offer  you  a new  one  what  a scene  there 
would  have  been ! So  I thought  I would  exchange  hats  with 
you  at  the  last  moment,  after  you  had  entered  the  stage-coach. 
And  I would  have  done  so,  had  you  not  burst  in  upon  me 
without  a hat,  and  given  me  what  I considered  a fine  op- 
portunity to  make  you  my  trifiing  present.” 

“ It  is  no  trifiing  present,  Andrew,  but  a magnificent  one.  I 
accept  your  hat,  and  I thank  you.  I will  wear  it  for  the  pres- 
ent instead  of  the  laurel-wreath  which  the  German  nation  is 
on  the  point  of  twining  for  my  brow,  but  which  will  probably 
not  be  quite  ready  until  my  head  has  long  since  been  laid 
under  the  sod;  for  the  manufacture  of  laurel-wreaths  pro- 
gresses but  slowly  in  Germany ; and  I sometimes  think  my  life 
is  progressing  very  rapidly,  Andrew,  and  that  I have  but  little 
time  left  to  work  for  immortality.  But  we  must  not  make 
ourselves  sad  by  such  refiections.  I thank  you  for  your  pres- 
ent, my  friend,  and  am  contented  that  you  should  adorn  my 
head  with  a hat.  Yes,  when  I consider  the  matter,  Andrew, 
a hat  is  a far  better  and  more  respectable  covering  for  a Ger- 
man head  than  a laurel-wreath.  In  our  bleak,  northern 
climate,  laurels  are  only  good  to  season  carps  with,  and  a 
sensible  German  had  far  better  wish  for  a good  hat  than  a 
laurel-wreath.  Yes,  far  better,  and  we  will  drink  a toast  to 
this  sentiment,  Andrew.  You  invited  me  to  a bowl  of  punch; 
out  with  your  punch,  you  good,  jolly  fellow!  We  will  raise 


82 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


our  glasses  and  drink  to  a future  crowned  with  beaver  hats! 
Your  punch,  Andrew!” 

Andrew  hurried  to  bring  from  the  warm  stove  the  little, 
covered  bowl  of  punch,  carefully  prepared  according  to  all 
the  rules  of  the  art. 

The  two  friends  seated  themselves  at  the  little  table  on 
which  the  steaming  bowl  had  been  placed,  and  filled  their 
glasses. 

‘‘  Raise  your  glass,  Andrew;  ‘Long live  the  beaver!  destruc- 
tion to  the  laurel!’  ” 

“No,  Fritz,  I will  not  drink  such  a toast  with  you,”  said 
Streicher,  slowly  setting  his  glass  down.  “ It  would  be  a sin 
and  a crime  for  Frederick  Schiller  to  drink  so  unworthy,  so 
miserable  a toast.  You  are  in  your  desperate  humor  again 
to-day,  Fritz,  and  would  like  to  invoke  the  very  lightning 
from  heaven,  and  concoct  with  its  aid  a little  tornado  in  your 
own  heaven.” 

“ Yes,  of  course,  you  droll  fellow!”  cried  Schiller,  emptying 
his  glass  at  one  draught.  “ Lightning  purifies  the  atmosphere 
and  brings  the  sun  out  again.  And  you  see  my  departure  is  a 
mighty  tornado,  with  showers  of  rain,  with  thunder  and  light- 
ning, intended,  no  doubt,  to  cleanse  and  purify  my  life,  that 
it  may  afterward  fiow  on  through  the  sunshine,  clear  and 
limpid.  Andrew,  I go  from  here  to  seek  happiness  and 
peace.” 

“And,  above  all,  renown,”  added  Streicher,  emptying  his 
glass. 

“No,”  cried  Schiller,  vehemently,  “no  renown  for  me! 
Translated  into  good  German,  renown  means  thorns,  hunger, 
want!  I intend  to  have  my  portion  of  the  viands  with  which 
the  table  of  life  is  richly  provided.  And  do  you  know  what 
my  purpose  is?” 

“ No,  but  I should  like  to  learn  it.” 

“ I intend  to  become  a jurist,”  cried  Schiller,  emptying  his 
second  glass.  “ Yes,  that  is  it.  I will  begin  a new  life  and 
make  a jurist  of  myself.  My  old  life  is  ended,  and  when  I 


PLANS  FOR  THE  FUTURE. 


83 


enter  the  stage-coach  to-night  to  go  to  Leipsic,  it  will  not 
contain  the  poet  Schiller,  the  author  of  ‘ The  Robbers,  ’ and 
other  absurdities,  but  the  student,  Frederick  Schiller,  on  his 
way  to  Leipsic  to  study  jurisprudence  at  the  university. 
Don’t  shake  your  wise  head  and  look  so  horrified,  Andrew. 
I tell  you  I will  become  a jurist;  I am  tired  of  journeying  on 
the  thorny  path  of  the  poet,  with  bleeding  feet  and  a hungry 
stomach.  All  my  illusions  are  vanished.  My  vision  of  a 
golden  meteor  sparkling  in  the  sun,  proves  to  have  been  only 
a soap-bubble;  and  this  bubble  called  renown  has  now 
bursted.*' 

“ You  are  again  talking  wildly  and  romantically,  like 
Charles  Moor,  in  ‘The  Robbers,’  ” cried  Streicher;  “and  yet 
you  are  not  in  earnest!'' 

“ But  I am  in  earnest,  my  friend ! The  sad  experience  of 
my  past  life  has  made  me  wise  and  practical.  I will  not  dis- 
card poetry  altogether,  but  will  indulge  in  it  at  times  only, 
as  one  indulges  in  oysters  and  champagne  on  great  and  festive 
occasions.  My  ordinary  life  will  be  that  of  a jurist.  I have 
given  the  matter  much  thought  and  consideration.  Fortu- 
nately, I have  a clear  head  and  quick  comprehension,  I will, 
therefore,  with  a firm  will  and  untiring  diligence,  study  and 
learn  as  much  in  one  year  as  others  do  in  three.  The  univer- 
sity in  Leipsic  is  rich  in  resources,  and  I will  know  how  to 
avail  myself  of  them.  If  an  ordinary  head,  by  ordinary  ap- 
plication, can  acquire  in  three  years  sufficient  knowledge  to 
enable  a man  to  earn  a comfortable  living  in  the  practice  of 
his  profession,  I can  certainly  attain  the  same  end  in  a shorter 
time.  My  attention  has  been  directed  to  the  study  of  systems 
since  my  earliest  youth ; and  in  our  Charles  School,  of  blessed 
memory,  I have  at  least  learned  to  express  myself  as  fluently 
in  Latin  as  in  German.  Study,  thought,  and  reflection,  is  a 
delight  to  me,  and  the  explication  of  difficult  subjects  a pleas- 
ure ; and,  therefore,  I am  convinced  that  I can  become  a good 
jurist,  and,  with  bold  strides,  swiftly  overtake  the  snail-mov- 
ing pace  of  others,  and  in  a brief  time  attain  that  which  the 


84 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


most  sanguine  would  scarcely  imagine  could  be  achieved  in 
years.” 

“ Then  you,  at  least,  admit  that  you  are  no  ordinary  man,” 
said  Andrew  Streicher,  shrugging  his  shoulders.  “ And,  never- 
theless, you  propose  to  confine  this  extraordinary  man  in  the 
strait-jacket  of  practical  science.  Truly,  I lose  my  appetite, 
and  even  this  punch  seems  sour,  when  I reflect  that  the  poet 
of  ‘The  Bobbers’  is  to  become  an  advocate!” 

“ You  had  rather  he  hungered,  and  wrote  dramas,  than  he 
should  lead  a happy  and  comfortable  life,  and  write  deeds. 
Ah,  my  friend,  the  career  of  a poet  is  full  of  bitterness  and 
humiliation.  The  wise  and  sensible  shrug  their  shoulders 
when  mention  is  made  of  him,  as  though  he  were  a crazy  fool; 
the  so-called  gentlefolk  do  not  recognize  him  as  their  equal, 
and  even  the  players  on  the  stage  act  as  though  they  conferred 
a favor  on  the  poet  when  they  render  his  dramas,  and,  as  they 
say,  give  life  to  inanimate  forms  by  their  sublime  impersona- 
tions. No,  no,  my  mind  is  made  up,  I will  write  no  more 
stage  pieces,  at  least  until  I have  achieved  a respectable  posi- 
tion in  the  world  as  a jurist.  Man  must  always  push  on  and 
possess  the  ambition  which  leads  higher  and  higher.  Are  not 
you,  too,  ambitious,  Andrew?” 

“ Of  course,  I am,  and  will  strive  with  all  my  might  to  ob- 
tain my  ideal,  and  become  the  leader  of  an  orchestra.” 

“ And  I,  Andrew,  I will  become  a minister,”  cried  Schiller, 
with  enthusiasm.  “Yes,  that  is  my  ideal! — minister  of  a 
little  state — to  devote  my  whole  life,  my  thought,  and  being, 
to  the  happiness  of  mankind,  to  be  a benefactor  to  the  poor 
and  oppressed,  to  advance  men  of  talent  and  science,  to  pro- 
mote the  good  and  useful,  to  cultivate  the  beautiful.  This, 
Andrew,  is  my  ideal;  and  this  is  attained  if  I succeed  in  be- 
coming a good  jurist  and  a minister  at  one  of  our  dear  little 
Saxon  courts.  Yes,  my  friend,  thus  it  shall  be!  You,  an 
orchestra-leader — I,  a minister!  Let  us  arise  with  our  foam- 
ing glasses,  and  sliake  hands  over  it.  Let  this  be  our  last 
toast,  and  our  linal  compact:  ‘ We  will  neither  write  to,  nor 


THE  LAST  RIDE. 


85 


visit  each  other,  until  Andrew  Streicher  is  the  orchestra-leader, 
and  Frederick  Schiller  the  minister. ' ” * 

“So  let  it  be,”  cried  Andrew,  laughing.  “Hurrah,  the 
orchestra-leader!  hurrah,  the  minister !” 

They  raised  their  glasses  exultingly,  .and  emptied  them. 
They  then  gave  each  other  one  last  embrace.  The  hour  of 
departure  and  parting  had  come. 

Andrew  accompanied  his  friend  in  silence  through  the  de- 
serted streets  of  the  slumbering  city,  to  the  post-office,  where 
the  coach  stood  awaiting  the  passengers.  A last  pressure  of 
the  hand,  a last  loving  look,  and  the  coach  rolled  on,  and 
carried  into  the  world  the  “new  Caesar  and  his  fortunes!” 


OHAPTEB  IX. 

THE  LAST  RIDE. 

Years,  when  we  look  back  at  them  in  the  past,  are  but  as 
fleeting  moments ; when  we  look  forward  to  them  in  the  fu- 
ture, they  are  eternities!  How  long  was  the  year  from  the 
•spring  of  1785  to  the  spring  of  1786  to  be  for  young  Frederick 
Schiller,  who  looked  forward  to  it  with  so  much  hope  and  so 
many  beautiful  dreams! 

How  long  was  the  same  year  to  be  for  old  Frederick,  for 
the  old  philosopher  of  Sans-Souci,  who  grew  day  by  day  more 
hopeless,  in  whose  ear  was  daily  whispered  the  awful  tidings, 
“ You  must  die!” 

He  did  not  close  his  ear  to  thse  mutterings  of  age  and  de- 
xsrepitude,  nor  did  he  fear  death.  For  him  life  had  been  a 
great  battle — a continuous  conflict.  He  had  ever  faced  death 
bravely,  and  had  fought  gallantly  against  all  sorts  of  enemies; 
and  truly  the  worst  and  most  dangerous  among  them  were  not 
those  who  opposed  him  with  visible  weapons,  and  on  the  real 
battle-fleld.  It  had  been  far  more  difficult  to  contend  with 


♦Schiller’s  own  words.— See  “Schiller’s Flight  from  Stuttgart,”  etc.,  p.  216. 


86 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


folly,  malice,  envy,  and  prejudices — to  pursue  his  conquering 
course  regardless  of  the  cries  of  the  foolish  and  the  calumnies 
of  the  ungrateful. 

It  is  easier  to  conquer  on  the  field  of  battle  than  to  combat 
prejudices,  than  to  extirpate  abuses.  And,  after  the  days  of 
real  battles  were  over,  Frederick  was  compelled  to  wage  in- 
cessant war  against  these  evils.  The  one  great  and  holy  aim 
of  his  life  was  to  make  his  people  happy  and  respected,  rich 
and  powerful;  and  with  all  the  energy  and  strength  of  which 
he  was  capable  he  strove  to  accomplish  these  ends,  never  per- 
mitting himself  to  be  confounded  or  dismayed  by  malice  and 
ingratitude.  Commerce  flourished  under  his  rule — the  fruits 
of  Prussian  industry  found  a market  in  the  most  distant 
lands.  Barren  lands  had  been  made  fertile.  The  soldiers  of 
war  had  become  the  soldiers  of  peace,  who  were  now  warring 
for  the  prosperity  of  the  people.  This  warfare  was  certainly 
at  times  a little  severe,  and  the  good  and  useful  had  to  be  in- 
troduced by  force.  But  what  of  that?  Were  potatoes  less 
nutritious,  because  the  peasants  of  Silesia  were  driven  into  the 
field  by  armed  soldiers,  and  compelled  to  plant  this  vegetable? 
Did  it  not  become  a great  favorite  with  the  people,  notwith- 
standing their  resistance  to  its  introduction  in  the  beginning? 
Were  not  vast  sums  of  money  retained  in  the  land  by  the  cul- 
tivation of  this  vegetable,  which  would  otherwise  have  been 
used  to  purchase  rice  and  other  grains  in  foreign  countries? 
Had  not  the  king  succeeded  in  introducing  the  silkworm  into 
his  dominions?  Had  not  the  manufacture  of  woollen  goods 
been  greatly  promoted  by  the  adoption  of  a better  system  of 
raising  sheep? 

But  Frederick  had  not  only  fostered  agriculture  and  in* 
dustry,  he  had  also  evinced  the  liveliest  sympathy  for  the  arts 
and  sciences.  Scholars  and  artists  were  called  to  his  court, 
and  every  assistance  was  rendered  them.  Universities  and 
academies  were  endowed. 

l>ut,  while  looking  to  the  internal  welfare  of  his  kingdom, 
his  gaze  was  ever  fastened  on  Austria,  the  hereditary  enemy 


THE  LAST  RIDE. 


87 


of  Prussia.  He  did  not  permit  the  house  of  Hapsburg  to 
stretch  out  its  rapacious  hands  after  German  lands.  Looking 
to  the  future,  and  contemplating  his  death,  he  endeavored  to 
secure  his  kingdom  against  the  Hapsburgs  beyond  the  time 
when  he  should  be  no  more.  This  was  evinced  by  Frederick’s 
last  political  act — the  formation  of  the  ‘‘Union  of  Princes” — 
the  Prussian  king’s  last  defiance  to  Austria.  This  “ Union  of 
Princes  ” was  a confederation  of  German  princes  against  ra- 
pacious, grasping  Austria.  It  united  all  against  one,  and 
made  the  one  the  enemy  of  all.  The  intention  and  object  of 
this  union  was  to  assist  and  protect  each  state  against  the 
common  enemy,  to  tolerate  no  trespass  on  the  rights  of  any  one 
of  them,  to  revenge  a wrong  done  to  the  smallest  member  of 
the  union,  as  if  it  had  been  perpetrated  on  the  greatest. 
Moreover,  the  welfare  of  the  German  people  was  to  be  duly 
considered  and  promoted,  the  constitution  maintained,  and 
no  violation  of  its  requirements  to  be  tolerated. 

This  “ Union  of  Princes  ” was  determined  upon,  and  car- 
ried into  effect,  between  Prussia  and  all  the  other  German 
states,  except  Austria,  and  other  states  whose  sovereigns  were 
related  to  the  Hapsburgs. 

This  union  was  Frederick’s  last  political  act!  Against 
Austria  he  had  first  drawn  his  sword  as  a young  king,  and 
against  Austria  this,  his  last  blow,  was  directed  in  uniting 
Germany,  and  making  it  strong  in  unity,  and  free  in  strength ! 

He  had  sown  the  seed  destined  to  bear  rich  fruit,  but  he  was 
not  to  be  permitted  to  reap  the  harvest.  His  life  was  drawing 
to  a close ; and  the  poor,  decrepit  body  reminded  the  strong 
and  active  mind  that  it  would  soon  leave  its  prison,  and  soar 
to  heaven,  or  into  illimitable  space! 

But  Frederick  wished  to  serve  his  people  to  the  last  mo- 
ment. As  long  as  he  could  still  move  his  hands,  they  should 
work  for  the  welfare  of  his  kingdom.  As  long  as  his  intellect 
remained  clear  and  active,  he  would  continue  to  work.  At 
times,  however,  bodily  pain  clouded  his  understanding,  and 
made  him  peevish  and  irritable.  To  have  occupied  himself 


88 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


with  matters  of  state  at  such  times  would  have  been  danger- 
ous, as  his  physical  condition  might  have  affected  the  decisions 
he  was  called  upon  to  make.  In  his  paternal  solicitude  for 
the  welfare  of  his  people,  Frederick  gave  this  subject  due  con- 
sideration, and  endeavored  to  render  his  bodily  afflictions  harm- 
less. There  were  several  hours  in  which  he  suffered  but  little 
from  the  gout  and  the  asthma,  and  these  were  in  the  early 
morning,  when  he  felt  refreshed  after  having  slept  for  one  or 
two  hours. 

One  or  two  hours’  sleep!  This  was  all  Nature  accorded 
the  royal  invalid,  who  had  watched  over  Prussia’s  honor  for 
half  a century,  and  whose  eyes  were  now  weary,  and  longed 
for  slumber  and  repose.  But  the  king  bore  this  affliction  with 
the  patience  of  a sage — he  could  even  jest  about  it. 

‘‘My  dear  duke,”  said  he  to  the  Duke  of  Courland,  who 
paid  him  a visit  in  June,  1786,  “ if,  on  your  return  to  Cour- 
land, you  should  hear  of  a vacancy  among  the  night-watch- 
men, I beg  of  you  to  reserve  the  place  for  me,  for,  I assure 
you,  I have  learned  the  art  of  watching  at  night  thoroughly.” 

But  he  wished  to  employ  his  hours  of  wakefulness  in  the 
night  for  the  good  of  his  people,  and  ordered  that  the  mem- 
bers of  his  cabinet,  who  had  been  in  the  habit  of  coming  to 
his  room  with  their  reports  at  seven  o’clock  in  the  morning, 
should  now  assemble  there  at  four. 

“My  condition,”  said  the  king,  when  he  acquainted  the 
three  members  of  his  cabinet  with  his  desire,  “ my  condition 
necessitates  my  giving  you  this  trouble,  but  it  will  be  of  short 
duration.  My  life  is  on  the  decline,  and  I must  make  the 
most  of  the  time  which  is  still  allotted  me.  It  does  not  be- 
long to  me,  but  to  the  state.”  * 

Yes,  his  life  was  on  the  decline;  but  for  a long  time  his 
heroic  mind  found  strength  to  overcome  the  weakness  of  the 
body.  At  times,  when  the  physicians  supposed  his  strength 
was  entirely  exhausted,  and  that  the  poor,  worn-out  figure  sit- 
ting out  on  the  terrace  under  the  burning  July  sun,  and  yet 

♦Zimmermann.— “Frederick  the  Great’s  Last  Days,”  p.  163. 


THE  LAST  RIDE. 


89 


trembling  with  cold,  would  soon  be  nothing  more  than  the 
empty  tenement  of  the  departed  soul,  he  would  gather  the 
energies  of  his  strong  and  fiery  mind  together,  and  contend 
successfully  with  the  weakness  of  the  body.  Thus  it  was  in 
the  month  of  April,  when  his  physicians  believed  him  to  be 
at  the  point  of  death.  He  suddenly  recovered  one  morning, 
after  a refreshing  slumber,  arose  from  his  bed,  dressed  him- 
self, and  walked  with  a firm  step  down  the  stairway  to  the 
carriage,  which  he  had  ordered  to  be  held  in  readiness  to  drive 
him  out;  he  entered  the  carriage,  but  not  with  the  inten- 
tion of  returning  to  the  palace  of  Potsdam,  but  to  drive  to 
his  dear  Sans-Souci,  to  take  up  his  residence  there  for  the 
summer. 

And  thus  it  was  to-day,  on  the  fourth  of  July,  when  the 
king,  who  had  passed  the  day  before  in  great  pain  and  dis- 
tress,  felt  wonderfully  refreshed  and  restored  on  awaking.  He 
sent  for  the  members  of  his  cabinet  at  four  o’clock  in  the 
morning,  and  worked  with  them  until  eight,  dictating  dis- 
patches and  lengthy  administrative  documents,  which  bore 
witness  to  the  vigor  of  his  mind.  At  eight  o’clock  he  desired 
that  his  friends  should  pay  him  a visit,  and  conversed  with 
them  as  gayly  and  wittily  as  in  the  long-gone-by  days  of  un- 
broken health.  He  laughed  and  jested  about  his  own  weak- 
ness and  decrepitude  so  amiably,  that  Count  Lucchesini  could 
not  refrain  from  giving  utterance  to  his  delight,  and  hailing 
the  king  as  a convalescent.  “ My  dear  count,”  said  Frederick, 
shrugging  his  shoulders,  ‘‘  you  are  right ; I will  soon  be  well, 
but  in  another  sense  than  the  one  you  mean.  You  take  the 
last  fiareof  the  lamp  for  a steady  fiame.  My  dear  count,  dark- 
ness will  soon  convince  you  that  you  are  wrong.  But  I will 
profit  by  this  transient  light,  and  will  persuade  myself  that  I 
am  well.  Gentlemen,  with  your  leave  I will  avail  myself  of 
the  bright  sunshine  and  take  a ride.  Order  Conde  to  be 
saddled.” 

“But,  sire!”  cried  Lucchesini,  in  dismay. 

A glance  from  Frederick  silenced  the  count. 


90 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


“ Sir/'  said  he,  severely,  ‘‘while  I still  live,  I must  be  ad- 
dressed with  no  ‘huts.’ " 

The  count  bowed  in  silence,  and  followed  the  other  two 
gentlemen  who  were  leaving  the  room.  Frederick  followed 
his  favorite  with  a look  of  lively  sympathy,  and,  as  Lucchesini 
was  about  to  cross  the  threshold,  called  him  back.  The 
count  turned  quickly,  and  walked  back  to  the  king. 

Frederick  raised  his  hand  and  pointed  to  the  window 
through  which  the  sunshine  and  green  foliage  of  the  trees 
could  be  seen. 

“ Look  how  beautiful  that  is,  Lucchesini ! Do  you  not  con- 
sider this  a fine  summer  day?" 

“Yes,  sire,  a very  fine  summer  day;  but  it  is  to  be  hoped 
we  shall  have  many  more  such;  and  if  your  majesty  would  be 
quiet  for  the  next  few  days,  you  would,  with  increased  strength, 
be  better  able  to  enjoy  them." 

“ And  yet  I will  carry  out  my  intention,  you  obstinate  fel- 
low," exclaimed  the  king,  smiling.  “ But  I tell  you  I will  never 
recover,  and  I have  a question  to  ask.  If  you  had  lived  to- 
gether with  intimate  friends  for  long  years,  and  were  com- 
pelled to  take  your  departure  and  leave  them,  would  you  not 
desire  to  bid  them  adieu,  and  say  to  them,  ‘Farewell!  I 
thank  you!’  Or  would  you  leave  your  friends  like  a thief  in 
the  night,  without  a word  of  greeting?" 

“No,  sire,  that  I would  certainly  not  do,"  replied  Lucche- 
sini. “ I would  throw  my  arms  around  my  friend’s  neck, 
and  take  leave  of  him  with  tears  and  kisses." 

“Now,  you  see,"  said  Frederick,  gently,  “the  trees  of  my 
garden  are  also  my  friends,  and  I wish  to  take  leave  of  them. 
Be  still,  not  a word ! I am  old,  and  the  young  must  yield  to 
the  old.  I have  no  fear  of  death.  In  order  to  understand 
life  rightly,  one  must  see  men  entering  andleaving  the  world.* 
It  is  all  only  a change,  and  the  sun  shines  at  the  same  time  on 
many  cradles  and  many  graves.  Do  not  look  at  me  so  sadly, 
but  believe  me  when  I say  tliat  I am  perfectly  willing  to  leave 
the  stage  of  life." 

* Frederick’s  words  a short  time  before  his  death. 


THE  LAST  RIDE. 


91 


And,  raising  his  head,  the  king  declaimed  in  a loud,  firm 
voice : 

“Oui,  finissons  sans  trouble  et  mourons  sans  regrets, 

En  laissant  I’univers  combl6  de  nos  bienf aits. 

Ainsi  I’astre  du  jour  au  bout  de  sa  carriöre, 

Repand  sur  Thorizon  une  douce  lumiöre, 

Et  ses  derniers  rayons  qu’il  darde  dans  les  airs 
Sont  ses  derniers  soupirs  qu’il  donne  ä I’univers.  ” 

He  extended  his  hand  to  the  count  with  a smile,  and,  when 
the  latter  bowed  down  to  kiss  it,  a tear  fell  from  his  eyes  on 
Frederick's  cold,  bony  hand. 

The  king  felt  this  warm  tear,  and  shook  his  head  gently. 

You  are  a strange  man,  and  a very  extravagant  one.  The 
idea  of  throwing  away  brilliants  on  an  old  man’s  hand!  it 
would  be  far  better  to  keep  them  for  handsome  young  people. 
Now  you  may  go,  and  I hope  to  find  you  well  when  I return 
from  my  ride.” 

Having  intimated  to  the  count,  by  a gesture  of  the  hand, 
that  he  might  withdraw,  he  turned  slowly  to  his  greyhound, 
Alkmene,  which  lay  on  a chair  near  the  sofa,  regarding  the 
king  with  sleepy  eyes. 

“You  are  also  growing  old  and  weak,  Alkmene,”  said  the 
king,  in  a low  voice ; “ and  your  days  will  not  be  much  longer 
in  the  land.  We  must  both  be  up  and  doing  if  we  wish  too 
enjoy  another  ray  of  sunshine.  Come,  Alkmene,  let  us  go 
and  take  an  airing!  Come!” 

The  greyhound  sprang  down  from  the  chair  and  followed 
the  king,  who  walked  slowly  to  his  chamber  to  prepare  him- 
self for  the  ride. 

A quarter  of  an  hour  later  the  king,  assisted  by  his  two 
valets,  walked  slowly  through  his  apartments  to  the  door 
which  opened  on  the  so-called  Green  Stairway,  and  at  which 
his  favorite  horse,  Conde,  stood  awaiting  him.  The  equerry 
and  the  chamberlain  of  the  day  stood  on  either  side  of  the 
door,  and  at  a short  distance  two  servants  held  the  horses  of 
these  gentlemen. 

The  king’s  quick  glance  took  in  this  scene  at  once,  and 
7 


92 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


he  shook  his  head  with  displeasure.  ‘‘No  foolishness,  no 
pomp!’*  said  he,  imperiously.  “My  servants  alone  will  ac- 
company me.” 

The  two  gentlemen  looked  sadly  at  each  other,  but  they 
dared  make  no  opposition,  and  extended  their  hands  to  assist 
the  king  in  mounting. 

But  it  was  a difficult  and  sorrowful  task  to  seat  the  king  on 
his  horse.  Deference  prevented  them  from  lifting  him  up, 
and  the  king’s  feebleness  prevented  him  from  mounting  un- 
aided. At  last  chairs  and  cushions  were  brought  and  piled 
up,  until  they  formed  a gradual  ascent  to  the  saddle-back,  up 
which  the  two  servants  led  the  king,  and  succeeded  in  placing 
him  on  his  horse.  Conde,  as  if  conscious  that  perfect  quiet 
was  necessary  to  the  successful  carrying  out  of  this  experi- 
ment, remained  immovable. 

But  now  that  he  was  seated  on  the  back  of  his  favorite  horse, 
Conde  threw  his  head  high  in  the  air  and  neighed  loudly,  as  if 
to  proclaim  his  joy  at  being  once  more  together  with  the  king. 

Alkmene  did  not  seem  to  relish  being  behind  Conde  in  man- 
ifesting joy,  for  she  barked  loudly  and  sprang  gayly  around  the 
horse  and  rider,  who  had  now  taken  the  reins  in  his  hand  and 
started  the  sagacious  animal  by  a slight  pressure  of  the  thigh. 

The  king  rode  slowly  down  the  green  stairway,  that  is,  a 
succession  of  green  terraces  forming  a gentle  declivity  in  the 
direction  of  Sans-Souci.  As  the  grooms  were  on  the  point  of 
following  him  the  chamberlain  stepped  up  to  them. 

“ Take  care  to  keep  as  near  the  king  as  possible,  in  order 
that  you  may  be  at  hand  if  any  thing  should  happen  to  his 
majesty.” 

“ His  majesty’s  carriage  shall  be  held  in  readiness  at  the 
Obelisk,”  said  the  equerry,  in  a low  voice.  “If  any  thing 
should  happen  to  the  king,  bring  him  there,  and  one  of  you 
must  ride  in  full  gallop  to  the  physician  Sello!” 

The  two  grooms  now  hurried  on  after  the  king,  who  had 
put  spurs  to  his  horse  and  was  galloping  down  the  avenue. 

It  was  a beautiful  day;  a shower  which  had  fallen  the 


THE  LAST  RIDE. 


93 


night  before  had  made  the  air  pure  and  fragrant,  and  washed 
the  grass  till  it  looked  as  soft  and  smooth  as  velvet.  The 
king  slackened  his  speed.  He  looked  sadly  around  at  the 
natural  beauties  which  surrounded  him,  at  the  foliage  of  the 
trees,  and  up  at  the  blue  sky,  which  seemed  to  smile  down 
upon  him  in  cloudless  serenity.  ‘‘  I will  soon  soar  up  to  thee, 
and  view  thy  glories  and  wonders ! But  I will  first  take  leave 
of  the  glories  of  earth!’’ 

He  slowly  lowered  his  eyes  and  looked  again  at  the  earth, 
and  inhaled  its  delicious  atmosphere  in  deep  draughts,  feasted 
his  eyes  on  nature,  and  listened  to  the  music  of  the  murmur- 
ing springs  and  plashing  cascades,  and  of  the  birds  singing  in 
the  dense  foliage. 

He  rode  on  through  the  solitary  park,  a solitary  king,  no 
one  near  him ; the  two  lackeys  behind  in  the  distance,  the 
greyhound  bounding  before  him ; but  above  him  his  God  and 
his  renown,  and  within  him  the  recollections  of  the  long  years 
which  had  been ! 

The  friends  who  had  wandered  with  him  through  these 
avenues,  where  were  they?  All  dead  and  gone,  and  he  would 
soon  follow  them ! 

He  had  often  longed  for  death ; had  often  said  to  himself 
that  it  would  be  a great  relief  to  lie  down  and  sleep  the  eternal 
sleep  of  the  grave.  And  yet  he  was  now  saddened  to  his  in- 
most being.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  skies  had  never  be- 
fore been  so  bright,  the  trees  so  fresh  and  green,  or  the  flowers 
so  fragrant ! Why  long  for  the  peace  of  the  grave ! How 
delicious  and  refreshing  was  the  peace  of  Nature!  with  what 
rapture  did  the  soul  drink  in  the  sunshine  and  the  fragrance 
of  flowers ! 

“ From  the  afflictions  of  the  world  I fly  to  thee,  thou  holy 
virgin,  pure,  chaste  Nature,”  said  he,  softly  to  himself. 
“ Men  are  but  weak,  miserable  beings,  and  not  worth  living 
for;  but,  for  thy  sake.  Nature,  I would  still  desire  to  live. 
Thou  hast  been  my  only  beloved  on  earth,  and  it  is  very  pain- 
ful to  thy  old  lover  to  leave  thee.” 


94 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


Yes,  it  was  very  painful.  Nature  seemed  to  have  put  on 
festive  garments  to-day,  in  order  to  show  herself  to  the  de^ 
parting  king  in  all  her  magnificence  and  beauty. 

The  king  rode  on  slowly  through  the  avenues  of  Sans-Souci, 
bidding  adieu  to  each  familiar  scene.  At  times,  when  an 
opening  in  the  trees  offered  a particularly  fine  view,  he  halted, 
and  feasted  his  eyes  on  the  lovely  landscape,  and  then  he 
would  lower  his  gaze  quickly  again,  because  something  hot 
had  darkened  his  vision — it  was  perhaps  a grain  of  sand 
thrown  up  by  the  wind,  but  certainly  not  a tear!  No,  cer- 
tainly not ! How  could  he  weep,  he  who  was  so  weary  and 
sick  of  life? 

“Yes,  weary  and  sick  of  life,“  he  said,  in  a loud  voice. 
“ Men  are  such  miserable  beings,  and  I am  weary  of  ruling 
over  slaves! — weary  of  playing  the  tyrant,  when  I would  so 
gladly  see  freemen  around  me ! No,  no,  I do  not  regret  that 
I must  die,  I leave  willingly,  and  my  countenance  will  wear  a 
smile  when  I am  carried  to  the  grave.“  * 

It  may  be  easy  to  take  leave  of  men,  but  Nature  is  so  beau- 
tiful, it  smiles  so  sweetly  on  us!  It  is  very  hard  to  have  to 
say  to  the  sky,  the  earth,  and  to  the  trees  and  flowers : “ Fare- 
well! I will  never  see  you  more!  Farewell!“ 

The  trees  and  bushes  rustle  in  the  wind  and  seem  to  sigh, 
“Farewell!“  The  falling  waters  seem  to  murmur,  “Never- 
more!“ Ah,  there  is  yet  a little  corner  in  the  king’s  and 
hero’s  heart,  which  is  merely  human;  a little  nook  to  which 
wisdom  and  experience  have  not  penetrated,  where  natural 
feeling  reigns  supreme. 

Yes,  man  tears  himself  from  beautiful  Nature  reluctantly 
and  sadly.  He  would  like  to  gaze  longer  on  the  flowers,  and 
trees,  and  shrubbery ; to  continue  to  breathe  the  fragrant  air. 
But  this  man  is  also  a hero  and  philosopher;  and  the  hero 
whispers  in  his  ear:  “ Courage,  be  strong!  You  have  often 
looked  death  in  the  face  without  flinching — do  so  now!“ 

The  philosopher  whispers,  “ Eeconcile  yourself  to  that  which 

♦ The  king’s  own  words. 


THE  LAST  RIDE. 


95 


is  inevitable.  A town-clock  is  made  of  steel  and  iron,  and 
yet  it  will  not  run  more  than  twenty  years.  Is  it  surprising 
that  your  body  should  be  worn  out  after  seventy  years? 
Rather  rejoice  that  you  are  soon  to  read  the  great  mysteries  of 
creation,  to  know  whether  there  is  life  beyond  the  grave,  and 
whether  we  are  again  to  be  united  with  those  who  have  gone 
before.*' 

“These  mysteries  I will  solve,"  cried  the  king,  in  a loud 
voice.  “ I greet  you,  0 dead  with  whom  I have  wandered  in 
these  shady  groves.  We  shall  soon  meet  again  in  the  Elysian 
fields,  and  I will  bring  you  intelligence  of  this  miserable  earth 
and  its  miserable  inhabitants.  My  mother,  my  sister,  I greet 
you,  and  you  Cicero,  Caesar,  Voltaire!  I am  coming  to  join 
the  immortals." 

He  raised  his  head  and  breathed  freely,  as  if  a heavy  burden 
had  fallen  from  his  soul.  His  countenance  was  illumined 
with  enthusiasm.  He  looked  over  toward  Sans-Souci,  which 
had  just  become  visible  through  an  opening  in  the  trees;  its 
windows  shone  lustrously  in  the  bright  sunshine,  and  the 
whole  building  glittered  in  the  glorious  light. 

“It  is  my  tomb,"  he  said,  smiling,  “and  yet  the  cradle  of 
my  renown.  If  I knew  that  I could  escape  death  by  not  re- 
turning to  my  house,  I would  still  do  so.  I am  willing  to 
yield  my  body  to  death,  and  am  now  going  home  to  die!" 

As  he  said  this  he  slowly  raised  his  arm  and  lifted  his  old 
three-cornered  hat  slightly,  and  bowed  in  every  direction,  as  a 
king  does  when  taking  leave  of  his  court. 

He  then  slowly  replaced  the  hat  on  his  thin  white  hair,  and 
pressed  Conde  so  firmly  with  his  knees,  and  drew  in  the 
reins  so  closely,  that  the  animal  galloped  off  rapidly.  Alk- 
mene  could  only  manage  to  keep  up  with  great  difficulty. 
The  terrified  lackeys  urged  their  horses  to  a greater  speed. 

This  rapid  ride  did  the  king  good,  the  keen  wind  seemed 
to  strengthen  his  breast  and  dispel  the  clouds  of  melancholy 
from  his  soul.  He  had  bidden  his  last  adieu  to  Nature. 
Death  was  now  vanquished,  and  the  last  painful  sacrifice  made. 


96 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


When  the  king,  after  a two  hours’  ride  through  the  park  of 
Sans-Souci,  galloped  up  the  green  stairway  on  his  return,  the 
chamberlain  and  equerry  were  astonished  and  delighted  to 
find  that  he  had  met  with  no  accident,  and  was  positively 
looking  better  and  stronger  than  he  had  done  for  a long 
time. 

The  king  halted  with  a sudden  jerk  of  the  reins,  and  the 
lackeys  rushed  forward  with  chairs  and  cushions,  to  form  a 
stairway  for  his  easy  descent,  as  before. 

But  with  a quick  movement  Frederick  waved  them  back. 
“Nothing  of  the  kind,’'  said  he.  “I  can  dismount  with  the 
aid  of  your  arm.  1 will,  however,  first  rest  a moment.” 

He  stroked  Conde’s  smooth,  tapering  neck,  and  the  intelli- 
gent animal  turned  his  head  around,  as  if  to  look  at  his 
master  and  thank  him  for  the  caress. 

“ Yes,  you  know  the  hand  that  strokes  you,”  said  the  king, 
smiling.  “We  two  have  taken  many  a ride,  and  gone  through 
rain  and  sunshine  together.  Farewell,  my  faithful  Conde.” 

He  had  bowed  down  over  the  animal’s  neck  to  stroke  its 
mane.  When  he  raised  his  head,  his  quick,  piercing  eye  ob- 
served a young  officer  coming  over  the  terrace  with  an  air  of 
embarrassment ; he  hesitated  and  stood  still,  as  if  doubting 
whether  he  might  be  permitted  to  come  nearer.  “ Who  can 
that  be?  ” asked  the  king,  gayly.  “ What  young  officer  have 
we  here? — Come  up,  sir,  and  report.” 

The  young  man  hurried  forward,  stepped  close  up  to  the 
king’s  horse,  and  saluted  him  by  raising  his  right  hand  to  his 
cap. 

“ I have  the  honor  to  report  to  your  majesty,”  said  he,  in 
clear,  joyous  tones.  “ I have  been  ordered  here  at  this  hour, 
and  punctuality  is  the  first  duty  of  the  soldier.” 

“ Well  replied,  sir,”  said  the  king.  “ Give  me  your  arm  and 
assist  me  to  dismount.” 

The  young  officer  hastened  to  obey  the  command,  laid  his 
hands  on  Conde’s  neck,  and  stretched  his  arms  out  as  firmly 
as  if  they  had  been  made  of  iron  and  were  capable  of  standing 


THE  LAST  RIDE. 


97 


any  pressure.  The  king  grasped  these  living  supports  and 
slowly  lowered  himself  from  the  horse’s  back  to  the  ground. 

“ Well  done,  my  nephew,  you  have  a strong  arm,  and,  for 
your  fifteen  years,  are  quite  powerful.” 

“Sixteen  years,  your  majesty,”  cried  the  young  man, 
eagerly;  “ in  four  weeks  I shall  he  sixteen  years  old.” 

“ Ah,  sixteen  already!”  replied  Frederick,  smiling.  “ Then 
you  are  almost  a man,  and  must  he  treated  with  due  consid- 
eration.  Mon  prince,  voulez-vous  avoir  la  honte  de  me  donner 
votre  bras?”  * 

“Sire,  et  mon  roi,”  replied  the  prince,  quickly,  “vous  me 
daignez  d’un  grand  honneur,  et  Je  vous  suis  tres  reconnais- 
sant!”  t And  after  bowing  deeply  he  offered  his  arm  to  the 
king. 

“Just  see  how  well  bespeaks  French  already!”  said  the 
king.  “We  will  remain  out  hereon  the  terrace  for  a few 
moments.  The  warm  sunshine  does  an  old  man  good! 
Lead  me,  my  prince.” 

He  pointed  with  his  crutch  to  the  arm-chair  which  stood 
near  the  open  door  of  the  saloon,  and  walked  slowly  across  the 
terrace,  supported  by  Frederick  William’s  arm. 

“Here,”  said  he,  as  he  sank  slowly  into  the  chair,  breath- 
ing heavily,  “ here  I will  repose  once  more  in  the  warm,  bright 
sunshine  before  I enter  the  dark  house.” 

He  looked  slowly  around  at  the  terraces  and  trees,  and  then 
his  gaze  fastened  on  the  young  prince,  who  stood  near  him 
with  a stiff  and  formal  military  bearing. 

“ Lieutenant,  forget  for  a few  moments  that  you  are  before 
the  king.  You  are  at  liberty  to  dispense  with  military  eti- 
quette. And  now  give  me  your  hand,  my  son,  and  let  your 
old  uncle  offer  you  a right  hearty  welcome.” 

The  prince  pressed  the  hand  which  he  extended  respect- 
fully to  his  lips. 

“Seat  yourself,”  said  the  king,  pointing  to  a stool  which 


* “Will  you  have  the  goodness  to  give  me  your  arm,  my  prince?” 

t“Sire  and  my  king,  you  confer  a great  honor  on  me,  and  I am  very  grateful. 


98 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


«tood  near  his  chair.  And,  when  the  prince  had  done  as  he 
bade  him,  he  looked  long  and  earnestly  into  his  fresh,  open 
face. 

“I  sent  for  yon,  my  child,*’  said  Frederick,  in  a soft  and 
tender  tone,  “ because  I wished  to  see  you  once  more  before  I 
set  out  on  my  journey.” 

'‘Your  majesty  is  then  about  to  travel,”  said  the  prince 
naively. 

“Yes,  I am  about  to  travel,”  replied  Frederick,  bowing  his 
head  gently. 

“ But,  your  majesty,  I thought  the  grand  manoeuvres  were 
to  be  held  at  Potsdam  this  time.” 

“ Yes,  the  grand  manoeuvres  will  be  held  in  Potsdam;  and, 
at  the  grand  review,  I will  have  to  report  to  Him  who  is  the 
King  of  kings.  Why  do  you  look  so  awe-struck,  my  son? 
Perhaps  it  has  never  occurred  to  you  that  men  are  compelled 
to  leave  this  paradise  to  die!” 

“ Your  majesty,  I had  never  thought  seriously  of  death!” 

“And  you  were  perfectly  right  in  not  doing  so,  my  child,” 
said  Frederick,  and  his  voice  had  now  regained  its  firmness. 
“ Your  attention  must  be  firmly  and  immovably  directed  to 
life,  for  a great  deal  will  be  required  of  you  on  earth,  and 
with  your  whole  mind  and  strength  you  must  endeavor  to  re- 
spond to  these  demands.  You  must  study  very  diligently  and 
make  yourself  familiar  with  the  sciences.  Which  is  your 
favorite  study?  ” 

“History,  sire.” 

“ That  is  well,  Fritz.  Impress  upon  your  mind  the  great 
events  of  history,  and  learn,  by  studying  the  heroic  deeds  of 
kings,  to  be  a hero  yourself.  Above  all,  your  aims  must  be 
great,  and  you  must  struggle  to  attain  them  throughout  your 
entire  life.  Who  is  your  favorite  hero  in  history?” 

“ Sire,”  replied  the  prince,  after  a little  refiection,  “ my  fa- 
vorite hero  is  Cosmo  de  Medici.” 

The  king  looked  at  liim  in  astonishment.  “ What  do  you 
know  of  him?  ” said  he.  “ Who  was  this  Cosmo  de  Medici?” 


THE  LAST  RIDE. 


99 


“ He  was  a great  general/'  replied  the  prince,  " and  a great 
lawgiver,  and  his  sole  endeavor  wr^s  to  make  the  people 
happy." 

“ Then  you  believe  the  chief  aim  of  a great  man,  of  a 
prince,  should  always  be  to  make  his  people  happy?" 

“ Yes,  sire,  his  chief  aim.  Professor  Behnisch  once  told 
me,  in  the  history  lesson  of  the  great  Cosmo  de  Medici,  called 
by  the  people  of  Florence  the  ‘ benefactor  of  the  people.  ’ When 
he  felt  that  his  end  was  approaching,  he  commanded  that  he 
should  be  carried  out  in  his  chair  to  the  largest  square  in 
Florence,  ‘For,’  said  he,  ‘ I desire  to  die  like  a tender  and 
happy  father  in  the  midst  of  his  children.  ’ But  the  children 
he  spoke  of  were  his  subjects,  who  now  poured  into  the  square 
from  al  des,  and  filled  it  so  closely  that  it  looked  like  a vast 
sea  of  1 nanity.  When  no  more  room  could  be  found  on  the 
square,  le  people  pressed  into  the  houses,  the  doors  of  which 
had  all  been  thrown  open ; and  from  the  edifices  which  sur- 
rounded the  square,  thousands  upon  thousands  looked  down 
from  the  windows.  Tens  of  thousands  stood  on  the  square, 
in  the  centre  of  which,  and  on  an  elevation,  the  chair,  with 
the  dying  prince,  had  been  placed.  Yet,  although  so  many 
inhabitants  had  assembled  there,  profound  silence  reigned. 
No  one  moved,  and  the  eyes  of  all  were  fixed  on  the  counte- 
nance of  the  dying  prince.  But  he  smiled,  looked  around  at 
the  vast  concourse,  and  cried  in  a loud  voice.  ‘x\s  my  last 
hour  has  come,  I wish  to  make  peace  with  God  and  men. 
Therefore,  if  there  be  any  one  among  you  to  whom  I have 
done  injustice,  or  any  one  who  can  complain  of  any  injustice 
done  him  under  my  rule,  I beg  that  he  will  now  step  forward 
and  call  me  to  account,  in  order  that  I may  mete  out  justice 
to  him  before  I die ! Speak,  therefore,  in  the  name  of  God. 
I command  you  to  speak.’  But  no  one  eame  forward,  and 
nothing  was  heard  but  the  low  sobs  of  the  people.  For  the 
second  time  the  prince  asked:  ‘If  there  be  any  one  among 
you  to  whom  I have  done  injustice,  let  him  come  forward 
quickly,  for  death  approaches!’  And  a loud  voice  from  among 


100 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


the  people  cried:  ‘You  have  done  nothing  but  good,  you  have 
been  our  benefactor  ai  d our  father.  You  will  cause  us  a 
pang,  for  the  first  time,  when  you  leave  us;  we  therefore  im- 
plore, 0 father,  do  not  leave  your  children!’  And  from  the 
vast  square  and  the  windows  of  the  circle  of  houses,  resounded 
the  imploring  cry  of  thousands  upon  thousands:  ‘0  father, 
do  not  leave  your  children!’  The  countenance  of  the  prince 
was  radiant  with  joy,  as  he  listened  to  the  imploring  cry  and 
the  sobs  of  his  people.  ‘This  is  a prince’s  sublimest  re^ 
quiem,’ said  he.  ‘Happy  is  that  prince  who  can  die  in  the 
midst  of  the  tears  and  blessings  of  his  people!’  And  when  he 
had  said  this,  he  arose  and  extended  his  arms,  as  if  to  give 
them  his  benediction.  The  whole  multitude  sank  sobbing, 
on  their  knees.  And  Cosmo  fell  back  into  his  chair.  He  had 
died  in  the  midst  of  the  tears  and  blessings  of  his  p pie.” 

The  prince’s  voice  had  faltered,  and  his  eyes  fi  .cd  with 
tears,  while  concluding  his  narrative,  and  he  now  looked 
timidly  at  his  uncle,  who  had  regarded  him  intently  through- 
out. The  eyes  of  the  venerable  old  man  and  the  youth  met,  and 
their  hearts  seemed  to  commune  with  each  other  also,  for 
they  both  smiled. 

“ And  you  would  like  to  die  such  a death,  my  son?”  asked 
Frederick  in  a soft  voice.  “ Die  like  Cosmo  de  Medici,  in 
the  midst  of  the  tears  and  blessings  of  his  people?” 

“Yes,  sire,  may  such  a death  be  mine!”  replied  the  prince, 
earnestly;  “and  I swear  to  your  majesty  that  if  I should  ever 
become  king,  my  sole  aim  shall  be  the  happiness  of  my 
people.  I will  always  think  of  you,  and  remember  your  deeds 
and  your  words.  Yesterday  my  new  instructor,  Mr.  Leuch- 
senring,  also  told  me  something  very  beautiful.  He  told  me 
that  your  majesty  worked  day  and  night  for  the  welfare  of 
your  people,  and  that  you  had  said:  ‘A  king  is  only  the  first 
office-holder  of  his  people!’  And  that  pleased  me  so  well  that 
1 have  determined  to  make  it  the  motto  of  my  life.” 

“Very  good,”  said  the  king,  shaking  his  head,  “keep  this 
motto  in  your  heart,  but  do  not  speak  of  it  while  you  are  not 


THE  LAST  RIDE. 


101 


yet  king,  or  it  might  cause  you  some  inconvenience.  Be 
careful  how  you  speak  of  me  when  I am  gone,  and  impress 
this  lesson  on  your  memory.  A prince  royal  must  never  crit- 
icise the  actions  of  the  ruling  king.  He  must  be  modest  and 
silent,  and  give  the  people  an  example  of  an  obedient  and 
loyal  subject,  even  if  the  king  should  do  many  things  that  do 
not  please  him.  I repeat  it, — a prince  royal  must  observe 
and  learn  in  silence.  Never  forget  this,  my  son,  and  adopt 
this  as  another  rule  for  your  entire  life.  A good  king  must 
never  devote  too  much  of  his  attention  to  women  and  favor- 
ites, or  allow  them  to  influence  him,  for  when  he  does,  it  is 
always  to  the  prejudice  of  his  people’s  interests,  and  to  his 
own  discredit.  I desire  to  say  nothing  more  on  this  subject, 
but  remember  my  words.” 

I will  do  so,  sire,”  replied  the  prince,  earnestly.  “ I will 
repeat  these  beautiful  lessons  daily,  morning  and  evening, 
but  noiselessly,  that  none  may  hear  them.” 

“Well  said,  my  nephew;  but  let  us  see  how  you  stand  in 
other  respects.  Put  your  hand  in  my  coat-pocket,  and  take  out 
a little  book.  I brought  it  with  me  in  order  that  you  might 
read  something  out  of  it  formybeneflt.  Have  you  found  it?” 

“ Yes,  sire,  I have.  It  is  the  ‘Fables  of  La  Fontaine.’  ” 

“That  is  it!  Now  open  the  book  at  random.  At  what 
fable  did  you  chance  to  open  it?” 

“ Le  Eenard  et  le  Corbeau.”  * 

“ Now  flrst  read  the  fable  in  French,  and  then  let  me  hear 
you  translate  it.” 

The  prince  flrst  read  the  fable  with  fluency  and  a correct 
pronunciation  in  the  original  language,  and  then  rendered  it 
with  the  same  fluency  and  correctness  in  the  German. 

The  king  listened  attentively,  often  inclining  his  head  in 
commendation,  and  murmuring,  at  times,  “Bravo,  superb!” 

He  extended  his  hand  to  the  prince  when  he  had  flnished, 
and  looked  at  him  tenderly.  “ I am  proud  of  you,  Fritz,”  he 
cried,  “ and  you  shall  be  rewarded  for  your  diligence.  Ke- 

* The  Fox  and  the  Crow. 


102 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


port  to  my  chamberlain  before  you  go,  and  he  will  give  you 
ten  Fredericks  d’or.  That  is  your  reward  for  your  im- 
promptu translation. 

“No,  I thank  you,’' said  the  prince;  “I  do  not  deserve 
this  reward,  and  consequently  cannot  accept  it.” 

“ What!  You  do  not  deserve  it?  And  why  not?” 

“ Because  it  was  not  an  impromptu  translation ; if  it  had 
been,  it  would  not  have  been  any  thing  like  as  good.  By 
accident  I opened  the  book  at  the  same  fable  I had  been  trans- 
lating yesterday  and  the  day  before  with  my  instructor,  and 
of  course  it  was  easily  done  the  second  time.” 

The  king  gazed  long  and  thoughtfully  at  Frederick  Will- 
iam’s handsome  and  innocent  young  face,  his  countenance 
brightening  and  his  eye  glistening  with  pleasure. 

He  bowed  down  and  stroked  his  cheek  fondly  with  his 
trembling  hand. 

“ Bravely  said,  my  son ; that  pleases  me.  You  have  an 
honest  and  sincere  heart.  That  is  right.  Never  appear  to 
be  more  than  you  are,  but  always  be  more  than  you  seem  to 
be.*  The  reward  I promised  you  you  shall  have,  nevertheless, 
for  a king  must  always  keep  his  promise.  A king  may  never 
recall  a favor  once  granted,  however  undeserving  the  recip- 
ient. But  this  is  not  the  case  with  you,  for  you  have  really 
made  great  progress  in  your  French.  Continue  to  do  so,  and 
be  very  diligent,  for  you  must  speak  the  French  language  as 
readily  as  your  own,  and  for  this  reason  you  should  always 
speak  French  with  your  associates.” 

“ And  I do,”  cried  the  prince  with  alacrity.  “ My  instruc- 
tors always  speak  French  with  me,  and  are  very  angry  when 
they  hear  my  brother  and  myself  speaking  a word  of  German 
together.  I often  pass  whole  days  without  speaking  a single 
word  of  German,  and  our  valet  speaks  French  only.”  f 

♦ Frederick’s  own  words.— See  “Frederick  William  III.,”  von  Eylert,  vol.  i.,  p. 
455. 

t To  this  habit  of  Frederick  William  may  be  attributed  the  fact  that  he  was 
not  able  to  express  himself  fluently  in  his  own  language  in  later  years.  When  the 
kinji:  spoke  French  hls  conversation  was  vivacious  and  forcible;  when  he  spoke 
Gennan,  however,  he  was  stiff  and  emban-assed. 


THE  LAST  RIDE. 


103 


“ I am  glad  to  hear  it,  Fritz ! The  French  language  is  the 
language  of  diplomacy  throughout  the  world,  and  it  is  also 
best  adapted  to  it  on  account  of  its  flexibility.  I love  the 
French  language,  but  not  the  French  people.  I think  mat- 
ters are  taking  a dangerous  course  in  France,  and  that  there  will 
be  trouble  there  before  long.  I will  not  live  to  see  it,  but  the 
crater  will  open  and  cast  its  abominable  streams  of  lava  over 
all  Europe.  Prepare  yourself  for  this  time,  my  son.  Arm 
and  equip  yourself!  Be  Arm,  and  think  of  me.  Guard  our 
honor  and  renown ! Perpetrate  no  wrongs,  and  tolerate  none. 
Be  just  and  mild  with  all  your  subjects,  and  severe  with  your- 
self only.*' 

“ I will  be  as  severe  with  myself  as  Professor  Behnisch  is 
with  me  now,’'  said  the  prince,  earnestly.  “I  will  give  my- 
self no  immunity;  but  when  I have  done  something  wrong,  I 
will  prescribe  a punishment  for  the  offence.” 

“ Is  your  professor  so  severe?”  asked  the  king,  smiling. 

“ Ah,  yes,  your  majesty,  very  severe.  A punishment  fol- 
lows in  the  train  of  every  offence,  and  if  I have  only  been  the 
least  bit  rude  or  angry  I must  suffer  for  it  at  once.” 

“ That  is  as  it  should  be,”  said  the  king.  “ Your  professor 
is  entirely  right.  Above  all  things,  a prince  must  be  polite, 
and  have  control  over  himself.  But  in  what  do  the  punish- 
ments he  inflicts  consist?” 

“Always  in  just  such  things  as  are  most  disagreeable: 
either,  instead  of  taking  a walk,  I must  stay  at  home  and 
work,  or  my  brother  is  left  at  home,  and  I am  compelled  to 
walk  with  the  professor  alone,  and  then  we  have  nothing  but 
learned  conversations.  Or,  when  I have  not  been  diligent 
during  the  week,  I am  not  permitted  to  visit  my  mother  on 
Sunday  and  dine  with  her  in  the  palace.  Your  majesty 
knows  that  we,  my  brother  and  myself,  do  not  live  in  the 
palace,  but  with  Professor  Behnisch  and  Mr.  Leuchsenring  in 
Broad  Street.  Our  table  is,  however,  very  bad,  and  for  that 
reason  I always  look  forward  to  the  coming  Sunday  with  pleas- 
ure, for  then  I eat,  as  it  were,  for  the  whole  week.  During 


104 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER 


the  week,  however,  our  fare  is  horrible;  and  when  I dare  to 
complain,  the  invariable  rejoinder  is,  ‘We  have  no  money  to 
keep  a better  table.’  ” 

“And  that  is  the  truth,”  said  Frederick,  severely.  “We 
should  learn  to  stretch  ourselves  according  to  our  cover  at  an 
early  day,  and  to  be  economical  with  money.  Moreover,  that 
you  do  not  suffer  hunger  is  quite  evident  from  your  fresh, 
rosy  cheeks,  and  vigorous  body.  You  must  eat  your  daily 
bread  with  a merry  face,  my  son,  and  make  no  complaints. 
Young  people  should  be  entirely  indifferent  as  to  the  quality 
of  their  food ; the  indulgences  of  the  table  are  a solace  of  old 
age ; youth  should  despise  them ; and  a good  apple  ought  to 
be  as  great  a feast  for  a young  man  as  a pineapple  for  an  old 
fellow.  In  later  years,  when  seated  at  a richly-laden  table, 
you  will  certainly  look  back  with  pleasure  to  the  time  when 
you  rejoiced  in  an  approaching  Sunday  because  you  fared  bet- 
ter on  that  day  than  on  any  other.  My  son,  by  suffering 
want,  we  first  learn  how  to  enjoy;  and  he  only  is  wise  who 
can  find  enjoyment  in  poverty.  I hope  that  at  some  future 
day  you  will  be  a great,  a wise,  and  an  economical  king,  and 
for  this  reason  I have  instructed  those  who  have  charge  of  you 
to  bring  you  up  plainly,  and  to  teach  you,  above  all  things, 
economy  in  money  matters.  For  you  must  know  that  you 
have  nothing  of  your  own,  and  that  the  people  are  now  sup- 
porting you ; and,  for  the  present,  not  on  account  of  your  ser- 
vices, but  solely  because  you  are  a scion  of  your  house.” 

“Sire,”  cried  the  prince,  with  vivacity,  “sire,  I am  very 
young,  and,  of  course,  have  not  been  able  to  do  any  service  as 
yet;  but  I promise  your  majesty  that  I will  become  a useful 
man,  and,  above  all,  a fine  soldier,  and  will  make  myself 
worthy  of  being  the  nephew  of  Frederick  the  Great,  ” 

“ Do  that,  my  son,  make  yourself  worthy  to  be  the  king  of 
your  people;  and  bear  in  mind  the  beautiful  history  of  the 
death  of  Cosmo  de  Medici,  which  you  have  just  narrated. 
And  now,  my  son,  wo  must  part.  The  sun  is  setting,  and  I 
feel  a little  tired,  and  will  go  to  my  apartments.” 


THE  LAST  RIDE 


105 


‘‘  Ah,  every  thing  is  so  beautiful  and  magnificent  here,  and 
your  majesty  has  made  me  so  happy  by  permitting  me  to  see 
you !” 

Yes,”  murmured  the  king,  ‘Hhe  world  is  very  beautiful.” 

He  looked  longingly  around  over  the  terraces  and  trees,  and 
his  gaze  was  arrested  by  the  peak  of  the  obelisk,  which  stood 
at  the  entrance  of  the  garden,  and  towered  high  above  the 
trees.  He  raised  his  hand,  and  pointed  to  the  peak. 

“ See,  my  son,  how  this  peak  overtops  every  thing  else. 
Although  high  and  slender,  it  stands  firm  in  storm  and  tem- 
pest. This  pyramid  says  to  you,  ‘Ma  force  est  ma  droiture.’ 
The  culminating  point  of  the  pyramid  overlooks  and  crowns 
the  whole.  It  does  not  support,  but  is  supported  by  all  that 
lies  under  it,  and  chiefly  by  the  invisible  foundation,  built  far 
beneath.  My  son,  thus  it  is  also  with  the  state.  The  sup- 
porting foundation  is  the  people,  and  the  peak  of  the  obelisk 
is  the  king.  Acquire  the  love  and  confidence  of  the  people, 
this  only  will  enable  you  to  become  powerful  and  happy. 
And  now,  my  son,  come  to  my  heart  and  receive  a parting  kiss 
from  your  old  king.  Be  good,  and  do  only  what  is  right ! 
Make  your  people  happy,  in  order  that  you  may  be  happy 
yourself.” 

He  drew  the  prince,  who  had  knelt  down  before  him,  to 
his  heart,  pressed  a kiss  on  his  lips,  and  laid  his  cold,  trem- 
bling hand  on  Frederick  William’s  head  for  a moment,  as  if 
to  bless  him. 

“And  now  arise,  my  child,”  said  he  lovingly.  “Do  not 
forget  this  hour.” 

“Sire  it  shall  never  be  forgotten,”  whispered  the  prince, 
sobbing  loudly,  and  covering  the  king’s  hand  with  tears  and 
kisses. 

“ Call  the  lackeys,”  murmured  the  king,  as  he  fell  back  in 
his  chair,  exhausted.  “ Let  them  carry  me  in.” 

The  prince  hurriedly  summoned  the  servants;  and  they 
raised  the  chair  in  which  Frederick  lay  with  closed  eyes. 

For  a moment  only  he  opened  his  eyes  to  look  at  the  prince, 


106 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


and  to  wave  him  a last  greeting  with  his  hand.  His  eyelids 
closed  again,  and  the  king  was  carried  into  his  ‘‘  dark  house’' 
and  into  the  library.  After  setting  the  chair  down,  the  lack- 
eys stepped  noiselessly  out  of  the  room,  believing  the  king  to 
be  asleep.  Frederick  opened  his  eyes,  and  looking  around  at 
the  busts  of  his  great  ancestors,  saluted  them  with  a motion 
of  the  hand. 

“ All  is  finished,”  he  said,  loudly.  “ I have  seen  my  garden 
for  the  last  time,  and  have  taken  leave  of  Nature.  When  my 
body  leaves  this  house  again,  it  will  be  borne  to  eternal  rest, 
but  my  spirit  will  fiy  to  you,  my  friends,  and  roam  with  you 
in  endless  light  and  knowledge.  I am  coming  soon.  But,” 
he  continued,  elevating  his  voiec,  and  speaking  in  firmer 
tones,  “ my  sun  has  not  yet  set,  and  as  long  as  it  is  still  day  I 
must  and  will  work!” 

He  rang  the  bell,  and  told  the  servant  to  send  Minister  von 
Herzberg  (who,  at  the  king’s  request,  had  been  sojourning  at 
Sans-Souci  for  the  last  few  weeks,)  to  his  presence  at  once. 

Frederick  received  the  minister  with  a cordial  smile,  and 
worked  with  him,  in  erect  composure  of  mind  and  clearness 
of  intellect,  for  several  hours,  listened  to  his  report,  gave  his 
decisions,  and  dictated  in  a firm  voice  several  dispatches  to 
the  ambassadors  of  France  and  Eussia. 

“Herzberg,  have  these  papers  drawn  up  at  once,”  said  he, 
as  he  dismissed  the  minister.  “ The  members  of  the  cabinet 
must  present  them  for  my  signature  to-day,  in  order  that 
they  may  be  forwarded  at  the  earliest  moment.  I must  deal 
sparingly  with  my  time,  and  employ  each  moment,  for  the 
next  may  not  be  mine.” 

“ Oh,  sire,  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  you  will  still  have  years  to 
devote  to  the  happiness  of  your  people,  and — ” 

“Do  you  suppose  I desire  it?’'  exclaimed  Frederick,  inter- 
rupting him.  “ No,  I am  weary,  and  long  to  rest  from  the 
troubles  and  cares  of  life.  You  think  I do  not  feel  them,  be- 
cause I do  not  complain.  But  you  must  know  that  some 
things  are  only  endurable  when  not  complained  of.  My  ao 


THE  LAST  RIDE. 


107 


count  with  life  is  balanced,  and,  although  it  gave  me  some 
laurels,  yet  the  thorns  predominated,  and  there  was  scarcely  a 
single  rose  among  them.  Be  still ! No  complaints ! But  lis- 
ten ! I believe  my  end  is  approaching — already  perhaps  Death 
lies  in  wait  at  my  door — and  I have  something  to  say  to  you. 
Madness  and  misrule  will  be  the  order  of  the  day  when  I am 
gone,  mistresses  and  favorites  will  reign,  and  hypocrites  and 
impostors  will  practise  iniquity  under  guise  of  piety.  Well, 
this  you  cannot  prevent ; and  if  the  Lord  should  see  fit  to  let 
it  come  to  pass,  you  must  bear  it  as  yovi  best  can.  But  when 
the  spendthrifts  attack  the  treasury,  when  they  begin  to 
squander  the  money  I have  saved  with  so  much  trouble,  for 
the  amelioration  of  the  country,  on  their  mistresses  and  favor- 
ites, you  must  not  tolerate  it.  You  must  speak  to  the  king’s 
conscience  in  my  name,  and  endeavor  to  persuade  him,  with 
good  and  bad  words,  to  consult  his  people’s  interests,  and  not 
lavish  on  his  favorites  what  belongs  to  the  state.  Will  you 
promise  to  do  this?” 

‘‘Yes.  I promise  your  majesty  that  I will  do  so,”  replied 
Herzberg,  solemnly.  “ I swear  that  I will  faithfully  and 
fearlessly  obey  the  commands  of  my  great  and  beloved  king; 
that  I will  repeat  to  your  successor  the  words  your  majesty 
has  just  spoken,  if  occasion  should  require ; and  that  I will 
do  all  that  lies  in  my  power  to  prevent  the  expenditure  of  the 
state  treasure  for  any  other  purpose  than  that  of  the  welfare 
of  the  people  and  country.” 

“ I thank  you,”  said  the  king;  “ you  have  relieved  my  mind 
of  a great  burden.  Give  me  your  hand,  Herzberg,  and  let  me 
thank  you  once  more.  You  have  been  a faithful  servant  to 
your  king,  and  you  will  continue  to  serve  him  when  he  has 
long  since  passed  away.  And  now,  farewell  for  the  present, 
Herzberg ; I desire  to  sleep  a little.  A cabinet  meeting  will 
be  held  here  at  eight  o’clock  this  evening.” 

“ But,  sire,  would  it  not  be  better  if  your  majesty  rested 
to-day,  or  else  called  the  meeting  at  once,  in  order  thc^  ’«'ou 

might  retire  to  your  repose  earlier?” 

8 


108 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


The  king  shrugged  his  shoulders.  “ There  is  no  repose, 
except  in  the  grave ; and  sleep  is  for  the  healthy  only.  ” And, 
even  after  they  had  left  him,  the  king  remained  sitting  at  his 
writing-desk,  and  arranged  his  papers,  and  wrote  a letter  to 
his  sister,  the  Duchess  of  Braunschweig. 

The  two  lackeys  stood  in  the  antechamber,  awaiting  the 
summons  of  the  king’s  bell,  and  whispering  to  each  other 
that  his  majesty  was  again  sitting  up,  and  working  at  a very 
late  hour,  although  his  physician  had  expressly  forbidden  him 
to  do  so.  And  yet  neither  of  them  dared  to  enter  and  dis- 
turb him  in  his  labors;  they  stood  hesitating  and  casting 
anxious  glances  at  the  door. 

But,  behind  this  door,  in  the  king’s  room,  two  eyes  were 
regarding  him  intently;  these  were  the  eyes  of  his  greyhound, 
Alkmene.  Twice  had  the  animal  already  jumped  up  from  its 
bed,  run  to  the  king,  and  nestled  caressingly  at  his  side,  and 
had  then,  when  Frederick  took  no  notice  of  it,  hung  its  head 
and  gone  mournfully  back  to  its  cushion.  It  now  raised  its 
tapering  head,  and  looked  intelligently  at  the  king,  who  sat 
writing  at  the  table,  his  back  turned  toward  the  little  dog. 
Suddenly  it  bounded  across  the  room,  sprang  upon  the  king’s 
chair,  laid  its  slender  forefeet  on  its  master’s  shoulder,  bent 
its  graceful  neck  downward,  snatched  the  king’s  pen  from  his 
hand,  and  jumped  down  to  the  floor  with  it. 

“Be  quiet,  Alkmene,’'  cried  the  king,  without  looking  up 
from  his  work,  in  which  he  was  entirely  absorbed.  “ No  non- 
sense, mademoiselle!”  And  the  king  took  another  pen  from 
the  stand. 

Alkmene  let  the  pen  fall,  and  looked  up  at  the  king  in- 
tently. When  she  saw  that  he  continued  writing,  she  ut- 
tered a low,  plaintive  whine.  With  one  bound  she  was  again 
on  the  back  of  the  king’s  chair.  Supporting  her  feet  on  his 
shoulder,  she  snatched  the  pen  from  his  hand  a second  time, 
and  jumped  down  with  it.  This  time  she  did  not  let  the  pen 
fall,  but  held  it  in  her  mouth,  and  remained  near  the  king’s 
chair,  looking  up  to  him  with  her  sparkling  eyes. 


THE  LAST  RIDE. 


109 


Frederick  looked  down  from  his  work  at  the  little  animal, 
and  a smile  flitted  over  his  features. 

‘‘Really,”  said  he,  in  a low  voice,  “I  believe  Alkmene 
wishes  to  remind  me  that  it  is  time  to  go  to  bed.  Well,  come 
here,  mademoiselle,  I will  grant  your  desire!” 

As  if  understanding  her  master’s  words,  Alkmene  barked 
joyously,  and  jumped  into  the  king’s  lap.  The  king  pressed 
the  little  greyhound  to  his  breast,  and  caressed  it  tenderly. 
“My  friends  have  not  all  deserted  me,”  he  murmured.  “I 
shall  probably  have  a smiling  heir,  but,  when  my  body  is  car- 
ried to  the  grave,  my  dog  at  least  will  remain  there  to  weep 
over  me.” 

He  pressed  the  greyhound  closer  to  his  breast ; deep  silence 
reigned  in  the  room.  The  wind  howled  dismally  through  the 
trees  in  the  garden ; a sudden  blast  dashed  some  fallen  twigsf 
against  the  low  window,  in  front  of  which  Frederick  worked, 
and  it  sounded  as  if  ghostly  hands  were  knocking  there.  The 
wind  whispered  and  murmured  as  if  the  voices  of  the  night 
and  the  spirits  of  the  flowers  and  the  trees  wished  to  bring  the 
king  a greeting. 

Suddenly  Alkmene  uttered  a long,  distressful  howl,  and  ran 
to  the  door,  and  scratched  and  whined  until  the  servants  took 
heart  and  entered  the  room. 

The  king  lay  groaning  in  his  arm-chair,  his  eyes  glazed, 
and  blood  flowing  from  his  pale  lips.  His  physician  and  a 
surgeon  were  summoned  at  once,  and  the  king  was  bled  and 
his  forehead  rubbed  with  strengthening  salts.  He  awoke  once 
more  to  life  and  its  torments;  and  for  a few  weeks  the  heroic 
mind  conquered  death  and  bodily  decrepitude.  But  the  ride 
on  Conde  on  the  fourth  of  July  was  nevertheless  his  last. 
After  that  day  Frederick  never  left  his  “dark  house.” 

When  the  king  of  the  desert,  when  the  lion  feels  that  his 
end  is  approaching,  he  goes  to  the  forest,  seeks  the  densest 
jungle  and  profoundest  solitude,  and  lies  down  to  die.  Na- 
ture has  ordained  that  no  one  shall  desecrate  by  his  presence 
the  last  death-agony  of  the  king  of  the  desert. 


110 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


His  Sans-Souci  was  the  great  king’s  holy  and  solitary  re- 
treat ; and  there  it  was  that  the  hero  and  king  breathed  his 
last  sigh  on  earth,  without  murmur  or  complaint. 

He  died  on  the  morning  of  the  17th  August,  in  the  year 
1786. 

A great  man  had  ceased  to  live.  There  lay  the  inanimate 
form  of  him  who  had  been  called  King  Frederick  the  Second. 
But  a star  arose  in  the  heavens,  and  wise  men  gave  it  the 
name  Frederick’s  Honor.  The  same  star  still  shines  in  the 
firmament,  and  seems  to  greet  us  and  Prussia:  Frederick’s 
Honor ! 


BOOK  IL 


CHAPTEK  L 

AFTER  THE  KIKG’S  DEATH. 

*‘The  king  is  dead!  Frederick  the  Second  is  no  more!  I 
come,  your  majesty,  to  bring  you  this  sad  intelligence!’' 

These  were  the  words  with  which  the  minister  Herzberg, 
accompanied  by  the  valet  Eietz,  walked  up  to  the  bed  of  the 
prince  royal,  Frederick  William,  on  the  night  of  the  seven- 
teenth of  August,  and  aroused  him  from  his  slumber. 

‘‘  What  is  it?  Who  speaks  to  me?”  asked  the  prince  royal, 
rising  in  bed,  and  staring  at  the  two  men  who  stood  before 
him — the  one  with  a sad,  the  other  with  a joyful  expression 
of  countenance. 

“ I ventured  to  speak  to  your  majesty,”  answered  Herzberg; 
‘‘  I,  the  former  minister  of  King  Frederick  the  Second.  His 
majesty  departed  this  life  half  an  hour  since,  and  I have  come 
to  bring  the  sad  tidings  in  person.  King  Frederick  the  Sec- 
ond is  dead!” 

“ Long  iive  King  Frederick  William  the  Second !”  cried  the 
valet  Rietz,  as  he  busily  assisted  the  king  in  dressing  himself 
and  finishing  his  toilet. 

Frederick  William  remained  silent.  No  words,  either  of 
sorrow  or  of  joy,  escaped  his  lips.  Lost  in  thought,  or  per- 
haps painfully  alive  to  the  sublimity  of  the  moment,  or  em- 
barrassed as  to  what  he  should  say,  in  order  to  satisfy  two 
men  so  differently  constituted,  he  silently  submitted  himself 
to  his  valet’s  attentions,  while  Von  Herzberg  had  withdrawn 
to  the  alcove  of  the  farthest  window,  and  stood  sadly  awaiting 
the  commands  of  the  new  king. 


112 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


“Your  majesty  is  attired,”  said  Eietz,  in  low,  submissive 
tones. 

“Is  the  carriage  in  readiness?”  demanded  Frederick  Will- 
iam, starting  as  if  aroused  from  deep  thought. 

“Yes,  your  majesty,  I ordered  it  to  be  ready  at  once.” 

“Come,  then,  Herzberg,  let  us  go;  Eietz,  you  will  accom- 
pany us.” 

“ But  kings  should  not  venture  into  the  night  air,  without 
first  breaking  fast.  The  chocolate  is  already  prepared.  Will 
your  majesty  permit  me  to  serve  it  up?” 

“ No,  Eietz,  every  thing  in  its  proper  place,”  said  the  king. 
“My  knees  tremble;  give  me  the  support  of  your  arm,  Herz- 
berg,  and  lead  me.” 

He  laid  his  hand  heavily  upon  Herzberg’s  proffered  arm, 
and  walked  out,  leaning  upon  him.  Eietz,  who  followed 
them,  fastened  his  small  gray  eyes  on  the  minister,  and  shook 
his  fist  at  him  behind  his  back.  “ You  will  not  be  the  sup- 
port of  my  king  much  longer,”  he  muttered  between  his 
clinched  teeth.  “ You  and  your  whole  pack  shall  soon  be 
dismissed!  We  have  stood  in  the  background  and  looked  on 
while  you  governed,  long  enough.  Our  time  has  at  last  come, 
and  we  will  make  the  most  of  it.”  His  manner  had  been 
threatening  and  hostile  while  muttering  these  words;  but,  as 
he  now  hurried  forward  to  open  the  carriage  door,  he  quickly 
changed  it,  and  he  not  only  assisted  the  king  in  entering,  but 
also  extended  a helping  hand  to  the  minister.  He  then 
jumped  up  and  took  his  seat  beside  the  coachman,  and  the 
carriage  rolled  down  the  broad  avenue  that  led  to  the  palace 
of  Sans-Souci.  The  drive  was  of  short  duration,  the  horses 
pushing  forward  as  if  aware  that  they  were  carrying  a new 
king  to  his  future.  Not  a word  was  spoken  in  the  carriage; 
its  occupants,  the  valet  included,  were  lost  in  meditation. 
He  also  was  fully  aware  that  he  was  entering  upon  a new 
future,  and  he  swore  that  it  should  not  only  be  a brilliant  but 
also  a profitable  one.  He  smiled  complacently  when  he  con- 
sidered the  pleasures  and  happiness  life  had  in  store  for  him. 


AFTER  THE  KING’S  DEATH. 


113 


Did  not  the  king  love  him,  and,  still  better,  did  not  the  king 
love  his  wife,  the  soi-disant  Madame  Eietz? 

“A  plain  madame  she  will  not  remain  much  longer,’'  said 
he  to  himself.  She  is  ambitious ; I will  place  her  at  the 
head  of  the  department  of  titles  and  orders,  but  I will  super- 
intend the  department  of  finance  and  material  profits.  When 
such  a good-natured  couple  as  we  are  harness  ourselves  to  a 
wagon,  it  will  be  strange  indeed  if  we  do  not  manage  to  pull 
it  through  the  mire  of  life,  and  if  it  does  not  ultimately  be- 
come transformed  into  a right  regal  equipage.”  At  this 
moment  the  carriage  turned  the  corner  of  the  avenue,  and 
there  lay  Sans-Souci,  illumined  by  the  first  rays  of  the  rising 
sun,  bright  and  beautiful  to  look  upon,  although  the  corpse 
of  a king  lay  within — the  corpse  of  one,  who  but  yesterday 
was  the  master  and  ruler  of  millions,  to-day  inanimate  clay, 
a handful  of  dust  from  the  dust  of  humanity. 

The  carriage  halted,  and,  as  no  one  came  forward  to  open 
the  door,  Eietz  reluctantly  opened  it  himself.  The  king’s 
house  was  the  scene  of  confusion  and  sorrow,  and  could  no 
longer  be  called  the  house  Sans-Souci,  “ the  house  without 
care,”  since  its  royal  occupant  had  closed  his  eyes. 

The  king  entered  the  antechamber,  and  greeted  with  a 
kindly  smile  the  two  valets  who  stood  near  the  door.  Tears 
rushed  to  their  eyes,  and  disregarding  etiquette  in  their  grief, 
they  neglected  to  open  the  door  that  led  to  the  inner  apart- 
m^ents.  Eietz  hastened  forward  and  opened  it,  and  then  fol- 
lowed the  king  and  minister  into  the  reception-room,  which 
was  still  empty,  as  the  princes  and  princesses,  and  the  court- 
iers, had  not  yet  been  informed  of  the  king’s  death. 

“Le  roi  est  mort!  Vive  le  roi!”  They  will  soon  come 
with  one  weeping  and  one  laughing  eye;  with  a reluctant 
tear  for  the  departed,  and  a fascinating  smile  for  the  living 
king,  who  had  awakened  this  morning  to  find  a crown  on  his 
brow,  and  a kingdom  at  his  feet ! 

“ Le  roi  est  mort ! Vive  le  roi !” 

How  desolate  is  the  antechamber  of  the  departed  king  to- 


114 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


day!  Not  a sound  is  heard!  The  portrait  of  the  Marquise 
de  Pompadour,  which  she  had  given  Frederick  as  a mark  of 
her  favor,  hangs  on  the  wall,  and  smiles  down  upon  this  scene 
with  its  coquettish  beauty.  The  king  and  the  minister  do 
not  observe  it,  but  Eietz,  who  follows  close  behind,  looks  up 
at  the  picture  with  a complacent  smile,  and  thinks  to  himself 
that  his  wife  will  certainly  become  quite  as  celebrated  and  hon- 
ored as  the  French  king’s  flame.  Why  should  not  an  empress 
also  write  to  her  some  day — to  her,  the  adored  of  the  King  of 
Prussia,  and  call  her  “ma  cousine?’'  Why  not? 

It  is  only  with  the  greatest  difficulty  that  the  valet  can  sup- 
press his  inclination  to  burst  into  laughter,  when  this  thought 
occurs  to  him.  As  he  follows  his  master  into  the  king’s 
study,  he  covers  his  face  with  his  hand,  and  assumes  an  air  of 
deep  dejection.  There  are  people  in  this  room,  and  there 
might  be  observant  eyes  there  also. 

But  no,  there  are  no  observant  eyes  in  the  king’s  study  to- 
day. The  men  who  are  present  are  thinking  only  of  their 
trouble  and  grief.  There  are  no  tears  of  etiquette  and  no 
sighs  of  assumed  sorrow  there.  The  king’s  four  cabinet 
counsellors  alone  are  present.  In  accordance  with  his  request 
of  the  day  before,  they  had  come  to  his  study  at  four  o’clock 
in  the  morning,  the  accustomed  hour.  On  the  preceding  day 
they  had  been  admitted  to  his  presence,  and  he  had  given 
them  his  instructions  in  a weak  voice,  and  had  even  steadied 
his  trembling  hand  sufficiently  to  affix  his  signature  to  a state 
document.  To-day  they  had  come,  as  usual,  with  the  rising 
sun,  but  they  now  saw  that  their  sun  had  set — nothing  re- 
mained for  them  but  to  weep.  The  king  did  not  see  them, 
or  did  not  seem  to  see  them,  but  walked  rapidly  toward  the 
open  door,  and  the  mourning  group  who  had  assembled  in  the 
adjoining  apartment.  On  a blood-stained  pillow  in  an  arm- 
chair lay  the  countenance  which  was  yesterday  that  of  a king. 
A day  had  transformed  it  into  a marble  bust;  it  lay  there  with 
closed  eyes,  in  peaceful  serenity — a smile  on  the  lips  that  had 
yesterday  cried  out  to  the  sun,  Soon  I will  be  with  you!” 


AFTER  THE  KING’S  DEATH. 


115 


The  great  king  was  with  the  sun ; that  which  lay  in  the 
chair  was  only  the  worthless  casket  of  the  flown  soul. 

Beside  the  body  stood  the  physician  Sello,  in  deep  dejec- 
tion. Behind  the  chair  were  the  two  lackeys,  who  had  faith- 
fully watched  at  the  king’s  bedside  during  the  preceding 
night;  they  were  weeping  bitterly,  weeping  because  he  had 
gone  from  them. 

Deep  silence  reigned;  and  there  was  something  in  this 
silence  which  inspired  even  the  valet  Eietz  with  awe.  He 
held  his  breath,  and  approached  noiselessly  to  look  at  the 
corpse  of  King  Frederick,  whom  he  had  never  had  an  oppor- 
tunity of  viewing  in  such  close  proximity  during  his  lifetime.. 

As  the  king  approached  the  body,  the  servants  sobbed  audi- 
bly. The  physician  bowed  his  head  deeper,  to  salute  the  ris- 
ing star.  The  greyhound,  which  had  remained  quiet  and 
motionless  at  the  king’s  feet  until  now,  jumped  up,  raised  its 
slender  head,  and  howled  piteously,  and  then  returned  to  its 
former  position. 

Deeply  moved,  his  eyes  fllled  with  tears,  the  king  stooped 
over  the  dead  body,  raised  the  cold  hand  to  his  lips,  and 
kissed  it ; and  then  he  laid  his  warm  hand  on  the  brow  that 
had  worn  a crown,  and  had  so  often  been  entwined  with  laurel- 
wreaths. 

“ Give  me,  0 God,  Thy  blessing,  that  I may  be  a worthy 
successor  of  this  great  king,*'  said  Frederick  William,  in  a 
low  voice,  while  tears  trickled  down  his  cheeks. — You,  my 
predecessor,  made  Prussia  great ; God  grant  that  it  may  never 
be  made  weak  through  my  instrumentality!  Farewell,  my 
king  and  uncle,  and  peace  be  with  us  all!’* 

‘‘  Amen!  ’*  said  Herzberg,  in  a Arm  voice.  “ Last  evening, 
when  the  shades  of  death  were  already  gathering  on  his  brow, 
his  majesty  King  Frederick  sent  for  me,  and  whispered  these 
words,  in  faltering  tones : ‘ On  the  morrow  you  will  present 
my  salutations  to  my  successor  beside  my  body.’  Your 
majesty.  King  Frederick  greets  you  through  me!” 

Frederick  William  inclined  his  head  in  response.  “ You 


116 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


were  with  the  king  when  he  died,  were  you  not,  my  dear 
Sello?’’ 

“Yes,  sire,  I was.” 

“ At  what  hour  did  the  king  die?” 

Sello  raised  his  hand,  and  pointed  solemnly  to  the  large 
clock  which  stood  against  the  wall  on  a marble  stand.  “ Your 
majesty,  the  hands  of  that  clock  stopped  the  moment  the  king 
breathed  his  last  sigh.  Sire,  behold  the  first  monument 
erected  to  the  memory  of  our  great  king!” 

Frederick  William  looked  both  astonished  and  pleased. 
“This  is  truly  wonderful,”  he  observed,  in  an  undertone. 
“They  were  then  right!  We  are  surrounded  by  wonders. 
The  hand  of  a mysterious  agency  is  visible  in  all  things!” 

He  walked  up  to  the  clock,  and  a feeling  of  awe  crept  over 
him  as  he  regarded  the  dial.  To  him  the  hands  were  ghostly 
fingers  pointing  to  the  moment  at  which  the  king  had  died. 

“Twenty  minutes  past  two,”  said  the  king,  softly. 
^‘Strange,  passing  strange!” 

He  turned  and  beckoned  to  his  valet  to  approach. 

“ Eietz,  at  what  time  did  I call  you  last  night,  when  I was 
awakened  by  some  fearful  anxiety?” 

“ It  was  exactly  twenty  minutes  past  two,  your  majesty!  I 
am  certain  of  it,  because  you  commanded  me  to  consult  your 
watch  at  the  time.” 

“Yes,  that  was  the  exact  time,”  murmured  the  king  to 
himself.  “ The  spirits  woke  me,  that  I might  greet  the  new 
day  that  was  dawning  for  me.” 

“Le  roi  est  mort!  Vive  le  roi!”  The  king,  who  gave  en- 
lightenment and  freedom  of  thought  to  his  people,  is  dead ! 
King  Frederick  is  dead ! A shadow  darkens  the  sun  of  this 
first  morning  of  the  new  era.  This  shadow  will  soon  become 
a lowering  cloud,  and  night  and  darkness  will  sink  down  over 
Prussia. 

“ Le  roi  est  mort!  Vive  le  roi!” 

Frederick  William  had  been  gazing  thoughtfully  at  the 
clock.  With  an  effort  he  suddenly  aroused  himself.  The 


AFTER  THE  KING’S  DEATH. 


117 


hands  of  that  clock  proclaimed  the  cessation  of  the  old  and 
the  beginning  of  the  new  era — of  his  era.  He  must  be  pre- 
pared to  meet  its  requirements.  For  the  second  time  he 
approached  the  corpse.  “ Where  are  the  king’s  decorations?” 
he  demanded  of  Strützki,  the  attendant,  in  whose  arms  the 
king  had  breathed  his  last. 

Hastily  drying  his  eyes,  Strützki  stepped  softly  to  the  little 
cabinet,  and  opened  it. 

Leave  the  others,”  commanded  the  king,  ‘^and  bring  me 
only  the  ribbon  of  the  Order  of  the  Black  Eagle.” 

Strützki  speedily  returned  with  the  designated  order. 
Holding  the  broad  orange  ribbon  in  his  hand,  the  king  now 
turned  to  the  Minister  von  Herzberg. 

‘‘ Count,”  said  he,  “bow  your  head,  and  receive,  at  my 
hands,  the  last  souvenir  of  the  great  king  who  has  cast  ofl  his 
mortal  frame,  in  order  that  he  may  sojourn  with  us  as  an  im- 
mortal spirit.  The  ribbon  worn  by  Frederick  the  Great  shall 
now  adorn  your  breast,  in  order  that  the  respect  and  esteem 
which  I entertain  for  you  be  made  manifest  to  the  world. 
You  will  be  as  true  and  zealous  a friend  to  me  as  you  were  to 
my  great  uncle.  You  will  serve  me,  as  you  served  him,  in 
the  capacity  of  minister  of  state ; and  you  will  be  often  called 
on  for  advice  and  counsel.  Count  Herzberg.” 

“Your  majesty,”  murmured  Herzberg,  his  voice  tremulous 
with  emotion,  “ your  majesty  rewards  me  beyond  my  deserts. 
I have  done  nothing  but  my  duty,  and — ” 

“ Happy  is  that  king,”  exclaimed  Frederick  William,  inter- 
rupting him,  “ happy  is  that  king  who  is  surrounded  by  ser- 
vants who  take  no  credit  to  themselves  for  the  good  and  great 
which  they  accomplish,  considering  that  they  have  done  no 
more  than  their  duty.  The  obligation  to  acknowledge  their 
services  and  show  his  gratitude,  is  on  this  account  all  the 
more  incumbent  upon  him;  there  are  very  few  people  on 
earth  who  can  say  of  themselves,  in  this  exalted  sense,  that 
they  have  done  their  duty.  But  I am  a very  happy  king;  I 
have  two  such  friends  at  my  side  on  the  very  threshold  of  my 


118 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


career.  Yon,  my  dear  count,  I have  already  rewarded  for 
your  services.  Your  patent  as  count  shall  be  made  out,  and 
the  insignia  of  the  highest  order  of  the  Black  Eagle  presented 
you.  You  will  still  continue  to  administer  the  affairs  of 
your  foreign  bureau.  And  now,  you  need  rest,  my  dear 
count ; I know  that  you  have  watched  a great  deal  in  the  last 
few  nights.  Au  revoir  ! ” 

After  taking  a last  lingering  look  at  the  royal  corpse,  Herz- 
berg  retired;  and  King  Frederick  William  turned  to  the 
valet,  Eietz,  who  had  stood,  with  his  head  bowed  down,  in 
order  to  hide  the  curiosity,  and  the  indifference  to  the  solem- 
nity of  the  occasion,  which  were  depicted  in  his  countenance. 

“And  now,  my  dear  Eietz,“  said  the  king,  extending  his 
hand  to  the  valet,  “ now  the  time  has  at  last  come  when  I can 
reward  you  for  your  faithful  services!  I appoint  you  treas- 
urer of  my  household,  and  keeper  of  my  strong-box!“  * 

“ Ah,  your  majesty,  my  beloved  king,“  sobbed  Eietz,  as  he 
pressed  Frederick  William’s  hand  to  his  thick,  swollen  lips, 
“ such  grace,  such  favor,  I have  not  deserved.  I thank  your 
majesty,  however,  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  and  you  shall 
always  find  in  me  a true  and  faithful  servant ! Oh,  what  will 
my  wife  say,  and  how  happy  she  will  be,  over  the  new  honor 
you  have  conferred  upon  me!“ 

The  king  withdrew  his  hand  with  a slight  shudder,  and 
looked  almost  timidly  in  the  direction  of  the  corpse,  which 
lay  there  so  grand  and  still.  He  did  not  see  the  quiet, 
stealthy  glance  which  the  treasurer  fastened  on  his  coun- 
tenance. 

If  the  corpse  of  the  great  Frederick  had  suddenly  come  to 
life  again — if  those  closed  eyes  had  opened  once  more — how 
withering  a glance  would  they  have  bestowed  upon  the  wanton 
valet ! But  even  the  corpse  of  a king  hears  no  more,  and  the 
closed  eyes  open  not  again ! 

“ Le  roi  est  mort!  Vive  le  roi !“ 

The  king  stepped  slowly  back,  but  his  gaze  still  rested  on 

* The  king’s  own  words,  uttered  beside  Frederick’s  corpse. 


AFTER  THE  KING’S  DEATH. 


119 


the  countenance  of  the  dead.  Though  closed,  those  eyes 
seemed  to  see  into  his  heart. 

“ Eietz,  send  for  the  sculptor,  in  Potsdam,  in  order  that  a 
cast  of  the  king’s  face  may  taken.** 

“Your  majesty,  it  shall  be  attended  to  immediately.** 

He  hurried  toward  the  door,  but  a gesture  of  his  royal  mas- 
ter recalled  him.  Frederick  William  dreaded  being  left 
alone  with  the  great  dead  and  the  weeping  lackeys ! For  he 
well  knew  that  the  bodies  of  the  departed  were  always  watched 
over  by  the  spirits  of  their  ancestors.  He  knew  that  the 
spirits  of  those  who  had  been  dear  to  the  departed  in  love  and 
friendship,  and  the  spirits  of  those  who  were  his  enemies 
while  they  trod  the  earth  in  the  flesh,  were  now  hovering 
over  the  body,  and  struggling  for  the  possession  of  King 
Frederick’s  soul,  even  as  they  struggled  for  the  soul  of  Moses. 
But  a short  time  had  elapsed  since  this  had  been  commu- 
nicated to  him  by  the  spirit  of  the  great  philosopher  Leib- 
nitz, whom  the  two  believers,  Bischofswerder  and  Wöllner, 
had  conjured  up  to  confirm  the  statements  they  had  made  to 
the  unbelieving  prince  royal ! 

Yes,  these  hostile  spirits  are  struggling  over  the  body  for 
the  possession  of  the  soul,  and  to  remain,  with  this  knowledge, 
alone  with  the  dead  and  the  contending  spirits,  inspires  awe 
and  terror. 

“ Eietz,  my  faithful  follower,  remain,**  said  the  king,  almost 
anxiously.  “ But  no ! Call  Lieutenant-Colonel  Bischofs- 
werder.’* 

“ Your  majesty,  he  has  ridden  into  the  city  to  carry  this 
sad  intelligence  to  the  present  prince  royal,  and  conduct  him 
here  to  Sans-Souci.” 

“And  the  Councillor  Wöllner?’* 

“ Your  majesty,  I have  dispatched  a courier  to  Berlin  to 
inform  him  of  the  king’s  death,  and  he  will  probably  soon  be 
here.’* 

“Ah,  Eietz,  you  are  a faithful  and  considerate  servant. 
Go  before  and  open  the  doors.  I will  repair  to  the  audience^ 


120 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


chamber;  the  court  will  probably  have  assembled  by  this 
time!'’ 

He  waved  the  royal  corpse  a final  adieu,  bowed  and  walked 
backward  to  the  door,  as  if  retiring  from  an  audience  accorded 
him  by  the  great  Frederick.  Profound  silence  reigned  in  the 
chamber  for  a moment,  until  Alkmene  crept  out  from  under 
the  chair  and  again  howled  piteously. 


CHAPTER  II. 

‘'lE  ROI  EST  MORT!  VIVE  LE  ROl!*' 

While  only  two  poor  servants  and  a faithful  dog  remained 
with  the  dead  king,  the  new  king  was  receiving  the  congrat- 
ulations of  his  court  in  the  audience-chamber. 

The  court  officials  and  ministers  had  already  assembled; 
and  now  the  princes  of  the  royal  family  were  coming  in. 

Rietz,  who  had  remained  in  the  antechamber,  now  entered 
and  approached  the  king.  “ Your  majesty,  his  royal  high- 
ness the  prince  royal  and  Prince  Louis  have  this  moment  ar- 
rived, and  beg  permission  to  tender  their  congratulations.” 

“Conduct  the  prince  to  the  concert-hall,”  said  the  king, 
“I  will  join  him  there  directly. — And  Lieutenant-Colonel 
Bischofswerder  ?” 

“Your  majesty,  he  accompanied  the  prince  royal.” 

The  king  bowed  graciously.  The  word  “ majesty”  sounded 
like  sweet  music  in  his  ear,  and  drowned  the  wail  of  grief  for 
the  departed. 

Bestowing  a kindly  smile  upon  the  assembled  court,  the 
king  left  the  audience-chamber  in  order  to  repair  to  the 
concert-hall,  where  the  two  princes  awaited  him. 

Rietz  went  in  advance,  and,  as  he  threw  open  the  door  of  the 
concert-hall,  cried  in  a loud  voice,  “ His  majesty  the  king!” 

The  two  princes  hastened  forward,  and  pressed  their  father’s 
extended  hand  to  their  lips. 


LE  ROI  EST  MORT!  VIVE  LE  ROI I 


121 


“ I take  the  liberty  of  tendering  to  my  royal  father  my  most 
humble  congratulations.’*  The  prince  uttered  these  words  in 
a stiff  and  declamatory  manner,  merely  repeating  them  as 
they  had  been  taught  him  by  his  tutor,  Professor  Behnisch. 

“ I beg  that  your  majesty  will  accord  me  your  favor,  and  I 
assure  my  royal  father  that  he  will  always  find  in  me  an 
affectionate  son  and  his  most  obedient  subject.” 

The  king’s  countenance  darkened  as  he  gazed  upon  the 
prince,  who  would  one  day  be  his  successor.  Prince  royal ! 
An  unpleasant  word,  truly;  a gloomy  and  constant  reminder 
of  approaching  death ! — the  prince  royal,  who  is  only  waiting 
to  be  king,  who,  like  the  shadow  of  death,  is  ever  at  the  mon- 
arch’s side,  reminding  him  of  approaching  dissolution.  To 
love  one’s  successor  is  certainly  a hard  task;  but  his  existence 
may,  at  least,  be  forgiven,  when  he  is  the  son  of  a loved  wife, 
when  the  father  loves  his  child.  But  when  the  prince  royal 
is  the  fruit  of  a marriage  of  convenience,  the  son  of  an  un- 
loved wife — when  the  king  has  another  and  a cherished  son, 
whose  mother  he  has  passionately  loved! — Ah,  how  differ- 
ently would  this  son  have  received  his  father!  He  would 
have  thrown  himself  into  his  father’s  arms,  and  would  have 
hugged  and  kissed  him. 

“ Oh,  my  dear  son  Alexander,  why  are  you  not  my  succes- 
sor? Why  must  you  remain  at  a distance?  why  are  you  not 
permitted  to  stand  at  my  side  in  this  great  hour?  But  all 
this  shall  be  changed ! My  Alexander  shall  no  longer  remain 
in  obscurity — no,  he  shall  not!” 

With  his  two  sons  the  king  had  only  exchanged  a few  words 
of  ceremony.  He  responded  but  coldly  to  the  formal  con- 
gratulation of  the  prince  royal ; and  replied  with  a mute  gest- 
ure only  to  the  embarrassed  and  stammering  words  of  Prince 
Louis. 

‘^And  now  go,  my  princes,”  said  he;  “go  and  look  at  the 
body  of  your  great  uncle,  and  impress  the  solemn  scene  upon 
your  minds,  that  you  may  never  forget  it!” 

“I  shall  never  forget  the  great  king,”  said  the  prince 


122 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


royal,  his  countenance  expressive  of  great  tenderness  and 
emotion.  ‘‘  No,  your  majesty,  I shall  never  forget  the  great 
Frederick.  He  was  always  so  gentle  and  gracious  to  me; 
and  but  a few  days  ago  he  spoke  to  me  like  a kind  father, 
and  that  made  me  feel  so  proud  and  happy  that  I can  never 
forget  it,  and  never  cease  to  be  grateful  while  life  lasts.” 

The  long-repressed  tears  now  rushed  from  the  prince  royal’s 
eyes,  and  Prince  Louis  began  to  weep,  too,  when  he  saw  his 
brother’s  tears,  and  murmured : “ The  great  Frederick  was 
also  very  gracious  to  me.” 

The  king  turned  aside.  His  sons’  tears  were  offensive. 
Who  knows  whether  they  will  weep  when  their  father  also  dies? 

“ Go,  my  sons,  and  pay  a last  tribute  of  tears  to  the  past, 
and  then  turn  your  thoughts  to  the  joyful  realities  of  the 
present!” 

The  two  princes  bowed  ceremoniously,  and  then  left  the 
room,  retiring  backward,  as  if  in  military  drill. 

The  king’s  eyes  followed  them  as  they  left  the  room,  and 
his  countenance  darkened.  “ They  are  as  stiff  and  awkward 
as  puppets.  And  yet  they  have  hearts,  but  not  for  their 
father! — Eietz!” 

The  chamberlain  immediately  appeared  in  the  doorway,  and 
stood  awaiting  his  master’s  commands,  his  countenance  beam- 
ing with  humility. 

‘‘  Eietz,  go  at  once  and  inform  my  son  Alexander  of  what 
has  taken  place!  He  must  go  to  Charlottenburg  with  his 
tutor  and  await  me  there ! Let  him  tell  his  mother  that  I 
will  take  tea  with  her  this  evening,  and  that  she  may  expect 
me  at  six  o’clock.” 

“Will  your  majesty  pass  the  night  in  Charlottenburg?” 
asked  the  chamberlain,  with  his  eyes  cast  down  and  the  most 
innocent  expression  of  countenance. 

“I  cannot  say,”  replied  the  king;  “I  may  go  to  Berlin, 
and — ” 

“ Your  majesty,  perhaps,  considers  it  necessary  to  pay  a 
visit  of  condolence  to  the  widowed  queen  at  Schönhausen?” 


LE  ROI  EST  MORT!  VIVE  LE  ROI! 


123 


Eietz  had  said  this  in  an  almost  inaudible  voice,  but  the 
king’s  attentive  ear  caught  the  words  nevertheless,  and  his 
countenance  beamed  with  joy. 

‘‘  Yes,  my  friend  and  heart’s  interpreter,  I will  visit  the 
widowed  queen  at  Schönhausen.  Take  the  fastest  horse  from 
my  stable  and  ride  there  to  announce  my  coming.’’ 

“To  the  widowed  queen  only,  your  majesty?  To  no  one 
else?” 

“ You  ask  as  if  you  did  not  know  what  my  reply  would  be,” 
said  the  king,  smiling.  “ No,  you  may  also  present  my  com- 
pliments to  the  queen’s  beautiful  maid  of  honor,  Julie  von 
Voss.  Request  her,  in  my  name,  to  hold  herself  in  readiness 
to  receive  me.  I wish  to  speak  with  her  on  matters  of  great 
importance.  Go,  my  friend!” 

“ To  speak  with  her  on  matters  of  great  importance,”  mut- 
tered Eietz,  after  he  had  left  the  room.  “ As  if  we  did  not 
all  very  well  know  what  he  has  to  say  to  this  beautiful  young 
lady;  as  if  his  love  for  her  were  not  a public  secret,  well 
known  to  the  queen,  his  wife,  to  the  entire  court,  and  to  dear 
Madame  Eietz,  my  wife  1 Very  well,  I will  first  ride  to  young 
Alexander,  then  I will  speed  to  Schönhausen,  and  finally  I 
will  hie  me  to  Madame  Eietz  in  Charlottenburg,  to  make  my 
report.  My  dear  wife  is  so  generous,  and  I can  dispose  of  so 
much  money  I Life  is  so  pleasant  when  one  has  money.  And 
it  is  all  the  same  who  a man  is  and  what  he  is ! If  he  always 
has  money,  a goodly  supply  in  his  purse,  he  is  a distinguished 
man,  and  is  respected  by  all.  Therefore  the  main  thing  is  to 
become  rich,  for  the  world  belongs  to  the  rich ; and  I am 
quite  willing  that  the  world  should  belong  to  me.  Oh,  I will 
make  the  best  use  of  my  time ; and  those  who  suppose  they  can 
fool  me  by  their  fiattery,  and  that  I can  be  induced  to  inter- 
cede for  them  with  the  king,  out  of  pure  goodness  of  heart, 
will  discover  that  they  have  calculated  without  their  host. 
Money  is  the  word,  gentlemen ! Pay  up,  and  the  influence  of 
the  mighty  chamberlain  shall  be  exerted  in  your  behalf ; but 

nothing  gratis!  Death  only  is  gratis!  No,  I am  wrong,” 
9 


124 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


said  he,  laughing  derisively,  as  he  gazed  at  a company  of  gren- 
adiers, who  were  marching  up  the  avenue  toward  the  palace, 
where  they  were  to  be  stationed  as  a guard  of  honor  to  the 
royal  corpse.  ‘‘  The  funeral  costs  a great  deal  of  money.*’ 

The  grenadiers  passed  on;  and  the  subdued  roll  of  the 
drums,  which  were  draped  in  mourning,  died  away  in  the 
distance,  while  the  winds  wafted  over  from  Potsdam  the 
sounds  of  the  tolling  bells  which  proclaimed  the  king’s  death 
to  the  awakening  city.  Eietz  hurried  off  to  send  the  son  of 
the  king  to  his  mother  in  Charlottenburg,  and  then  to  ride 
to  Schönhausen  and  deliver  a loving  greeting  to  Frederick 
William’s  new  flame.  It  was  still  silent  and  desolate  in  the 
chamber  of  the  dead  at  Sans-Souci.  Strützki  had  once 
stepped  softly  out  of  the  room  to  get  some  twigs  from  the 
elder-tree  which  stood  on  the  terrace,  to  keep  the  flies  from 
the  face  of  the  dead  king.  And  now  the  two  lackeys  were 
standing  on  either  side  of  the  chair,  fanning  away  the  miser- 
able insects  that  had  dared  to  light  on  this  countenance  since 
the  hand  of  the  artist  Death  had  chiselled  it  into  marble. 
Nothing  was  heard  but  the  rustle  of  the  twigs  and  the  hum- 
ming of  the  flies,  ever  returning,  as  if  to  mock  man’s  vain 
efforts  to  drive  them  from  what  was  justly  their  own. 

The  doors  were  softly  opened,  and  the  two  princes  glided 
in,  and  noiselessly  approached  the  arm-chair  in  which  Freder-' 
ick  lay,  as  if  fearful  of  awakening  him. 

The  prince  royal  looked  at  the  body  long  and  silently,  and 
.his  countenance  was  expressive  of  deep  and  earnest  feeling. 
‘'Stand  aside,  lackeys,”  said  he,  haughtily,  "and  you,  too, 
my  brother,  I wish  to  be  alone.  I wish  to  commune  awhile 
with  his  majesty!” 

The  lackeys  and  Prince  Louis  retired ; the  former  to  the 
door,  the  latter  to  the  distant  window;  and  now  the  lad  of 
sixteen  was  alone  with  the  immortal  Frederick. 

lie  knelt  down  before  the  body,  grasped  the  cold  hand, 
and  gazed  on  the  marble  features  of  the  great  dead  with  an 
expression  of  intense  earnestness  and  determination. 


LE  ROI  EST  MORT!  VIVE  LE  ROI! 


125 


great  uncle  and  king/*  murmured  he,  “I  swear  to 
you  that  I will  endeavor  to  do  all  that  you  recently  enjoined 
upon  me ; and  that  I will  ever  strive  to  do  honor  to  your  great 
name.  I swear  to  you  that  I will  one  day  be  a good  and  use- 
ful king,  and  endeavor  to  deserve  the  affection  of  the  people. 
My  dear  uncle,  I have  a secret  in  my  heart,  and  I must  dis- 
close it  before  you  descend  into  the  grave.  It  seems  to  me 
your  sleep  will  be  more  peaceful  when  you  learn  it : I hate 
Madame  Rietz  and  her  husband.  And  if  she  is  still  living 
when  I become  king,  I will  punish  her  for  her  crimes,  and 
will  repay  her  for  all  the  tears  which  she  has  caused  my  dear 
mother.  J^o  one  knows  of  my  determination  except  my 
mother,  who  recently  told  me  what  sorrow  Madame  Eietz  had 
occasioned  her,  and  then  I was  so  angry  that  I wished  to  go 
immediately  and  kill  her.  But  my  mother  exhorted  me  to 
silence  and  patience,  and  I promised  that  I would  obey  her. 
But  when  I am  king,  I will  be  no  longer  silent ; then  shall 
come  the  day  of  arraignment  and  punishment.  This  I swear 
to  you,  my  dear,  my  great  uncle  and  king;  and  this  is  the 
secret  I longed  to  disclose.  Yes,  I will  some  day  avenge  my 
mother.  Farewell,  my  king — sleep  in  peace!  and — **  A 
hand  was  laid  upon  his  shoulder ; he  looked  up  and  saw  his 
young  cousin  Prince  Louis,  whose  approach  he  had  not  no- 
ticed, standing  beside  him. 

“I  congratulate  you,  cousin,**  said  Prince  Louis,  impres- 
sively, “ and  crave  the  continuance  of  your  favor,  prince  royal 
of  Prussia.  His  majesty  the  king  sent  me  here  to  pay  my  re- 
spects to  the  royal  corpse  and  the  prince  royal,  but  I propose 
to  pay  my  respects  to  the  latter  first.** 

“No,**  said  Frederick  William,  who  had  slowly  arisen  from 
his  knees,  “ that  you  must  not  do,  cousin  Louis.  I am  not 
changed,  and  am  no  better  because  of  our  great  king’s 
death.** 

“But  more  powerful,**  said  the  prince;  “you  are  now 
prince  royal,  and  the  greatest  deference  should  be  shown  you. 
Oh,  do  not  look  at  me  so  earnestly  and  angrily,  cousin.  You 


126 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


chink  I am  cold  and  indifferent;  but  no,  I have  only  deter- 
mined not  to  weep  over  the  body  of  our  dear  uncle.  My 
mother  tells  me  we  shall  also  soon  die,  if  we  let  fall  a tear  on 
the  countenance  of  the  dead.  And  yet,  Frederick,  when  I 
reflect  that  the  good  uncle  is  dead  who  was  always  so  kind  to 
me,  and  who  was  our  pride  and  glory,  I cannot  help  shedding 
tears  in  spite  of  my  mother’s  injunction.  Oh,  great  Freder- 
ick, that  you  could  have  remained  a few  years  longer  on  earth, 
till  that  proud  eye  might  have  rested  on  a gallant  prince  and 
brave  soldier,  instead  of  a foolish  lad!’' 

But,  cousin,  how  can  you  speak  so  disparagingly  of  your- 
self, and  so  far  forget  your  dignity  as  a prince?” 

“Ah,  a prince  is  no  better  than  any  one  else,”  said  Prince 
Louis,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  “ and  while  I have  the  great- 
est respect  for  your  exalted  rank,  Mr.  Prince  Eoyal,  I have 
none  whatever  for  my  own  little  title;  particularly  at  this 
moment,  when  I see  that  the  great  Frederick,  the  hero  and 
king,  was  only  a mortal.  Oh,  my  dear  uncle,  why  did  you 
leave  us  so  soon ! You  were  not  yet  so  old — scarcely  seventy- 
four  years,  and  there  are  so  many  who  are  older.  A short 
time  since,  as  I was  coming  here  to  inquire  after  your  health, 
I saw  an  old  man  at  the  entrance  of  the  park,  warming  him- 
self in  the  sun ; he  sat  with  folded  hands,  and  prayed  aloud. 
I approached  and  offered  him  a piece  of  money,  which  he  re- 
jected. I then  asked  him  why  he  prayed  and  begged,  if  he 
did  not  desire  money.  ‘I  am  praying  for  the  sick  king,’  said 
he ; ‘ I am  entreating  the  sunbeams  to  warm  and  invigorate 
the  king’s  suffering  body,  and  restore  him  to  new  life.  The 
king  is  so  young ! he  should  live  much  longer.  I was  a sol- 
dier when  the  king  was  baptized,  and  stood  near  by  as  a 
sentinel ; and  now  they  say  that  he  must  die.  That  makes 
me  anxious.  If  so  young  a man  must  already  die,  my  turn 
will  soon  come ; and  I so  much  desire  to  live  a little  longer 
and  warm  myself  in  the  bright  sunshine!’  And  the  old  man 
of  ninety  is  still  sitting  in  the  sunshine;  while  you,  great 
Frederick,  were  compelled  to  die!  You  have  gone  to  the 


LE  ROI  EST  MORT!  VIVE  LE  ROI! 


127 


stin,  while  we  are  still  groping  in  darkness,  and  lamenting 
yonr  loss,  and — ” 

“Be  still,  cousin!”  murmured  the  prince  royal;  “some 
one  is  coming ! It  is  the  sculptor  who  is  to  take  a cast  of  the 
king’s  face.  Come,  let  us  go!  Come!” 

He  extended  his  hand  to  Prince  Louis,  to  lead  him  out  of 
the  room,  but  the  prince  drew  back. 

He  knelt  down  before  the  body,  and  kissed  the  cold  hand 
which  had  recently  stroked  his  cheeks  affectionately.  Freder- 
ick had  always  loved  Prince  Louis,  the  son  of  his  brother 
Ferdinand,  and  had  often  prophesied  that  he  would  live  to 
accomplish  something  great  and  useful. 

The  young  prince  thought  of  this,  as  he  pressed  the  cold 
hand  to  his  lips  in  a last  farewell.  “ I swear  to  you,  my  great 
uncle  and  king,  that  I will  faithfully  strive  to  fulfil  your 
prophecy,  and  accomplish  something  good  and  useful,  and  to 
do  honor  to  the  name  I bear.  Let  the  kiss  which  I now  press 
on  your  hand  be  the  seal  of  my  vow,  and  my  last  greeting!” 

He  arose,  and  his  large  dark  eyes  rested  on  the  body  with  a 
lingering,  tender  look. 

“Oh,”  sighed  he,  “why  am  I not  a painter  or  an  artist, 
that  I might  sketch  this  scene!” 

“A  happy  suggestion,”  said  the  prince  royal,  eagerly.  “I 
am  certainly  no  artist,  but  I can  draw  a little  nevertheless; 
and  I intend  to  make  for  myself  a memento  of  this  day. — 
Mr.  Eckstein,  I beg  you  to  wait  a quarter  of  an  hour,  in  order 
that  I may  make  a sketch  of  this  scene.” 

The  sculptor,  who  had  already  approached  the  body  with 
his  apparatus,  bowed  respectfully,  and  stepped  back.  Prince 
Louis  took  a pencil  and  a sheet  of  paper  from  the  king’s  writ- 
ing-desk, and  handed  it  to  his  brother  the  prince  royal.  The 
latter  commenced  to  sketch  the  scene  with  hurried  strokes.* 
His  brother  stood  at  his  side,  looking  on ; behind  the  chair 

* This  drawing,  which  the  prince  royal  had  made  of  the  body  of  Frederick  the 
Great,  was  afterward  framed,  and  hung  for  many  years  in  his  study,  with  this  in- 
scription, in  his  own  handwriting:  “I  sketched  this  on  the  17th  of  August,  1786, 
between  the  hours  of  9 and  10  ” 


128 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


were  the  two  lackeys,  and  the  greyhound’s  head  protruded 
from  beneath  the  chair.  The  sculptor  Eckstein  had 
withdrawn  to  the  farthest  end  of  the  room.  Prince  Louis 
had,  however,  noiselessly  glided  into  the  adjoining  concert- 
room,  where  the  instruments  were  kept.  There  were  the 
flutes  and  violins  in  their  cases,  and  there  stood  the  magnifi- 
cent piano,  inlaid  with  ivory  and  mother-of-pearl,  which  the 
king’s  hands  had  so  often  touched. 

The  silence  of  the  death-chamber  was  once  more  unbroken. 
The  body  lay  there,  so  great  and  sublime  in  the  two-fold 
majesty  of  death  and  renown,  and  the  prince  royal  was  ab- 
sorbed in  his  work,  when  the  silence  was  suddenly  broken  by 
subdued  tones  of  plaintive  music.  These  tones  came  from 
the  concert-room,  and  filled  the  chamber  of  the  dead  with 
low  and  harmonious  sighs  and  lamentations. 

Alkmene  crept  out  from  under  the  arm-chair,  and  trotted 
slowly  into  the  adjoining  chamber,  as  if  to  see  if  her  master, 
whose  voice  she  had  not  heard  since  yesterday,  had  not  called 
to  her  to  come  to  him  at  the  piano.  The  greyhound,  how- 
ever, returned  to  her  former  position,  when  she  saw  that  it 
was  another  who  sat  at  the  piano. 

No,  it  was  not  the  king,  but  his  nephew  Louis,  who  was 
playing  this  requiem  for  the  great  departed,  and  tears  were 
trickling  down  over  his  handsome  and  manly  young  face. 
Perhaps  it  was  improper  to  break  in  upon  the  stillness  of  the 
sacred  chamber  in  this  manner.  But  what  cared  the  young 
prince  for  that.  He  thought  only  of  bringing  the  great  dead 
a last  love-offering,  and  none  was  there  to  prevent  him. 
Etiquette  had  nothing  more  to  do  with  the  dead  king.  It 
had  taken  up  its  abode  in  the  neighboring  audience-chamber, 
with  the  living  king.  There,  all  was  formality  and  ceremony. 
There,  decorated  excellencies  and  gold-embroidered  uniforms 
were  making  profound  obeisances.  There,  respectful  con- 
gratulations were  being  made,  and  gracious  smiles  accorded 
by  royal  lips. 

“Le  roi  est  mort!  Vive  le  roil’' 


THE  FAVOKITES. 


129 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  FAYOKITES. 

Kikg  Frederick;  William  stepped  back  into  the  little 
audience-chamber,  and  beckoned  to  his  two  friends  Bischofs- 
werder and  Wöllner  to  follow  him. 

He  embraced  Bischofswerder,  and  pressed  a kiss  on  his 
forehead.  My  friend,  you  must  never  leave  me,  but  always 
remain  at  my  side.” 

“I  will  follow  my  royal  master,”  said  Bischofswerder,  bow- 
ing profoundly,  as  a faithful  dog  follows  his  master’s  foot- 
steps, satisfied  if  he  shall  from  time  to  time  vouchsafe  me  a 
gracious  look.” 

‘‘I  know  you,  my  friend,”  said  the  king.  know  that 
you  are  disinterested,  that  you  are  not  ambitious,  and  that 
the  things  of  this  world  are  of  but  little  importance  to  your 
noble  mind.” 

Let  it  be  my  task  to  provide  for  your  earthly  as  you  have 
undertaken  to  provide  for  my  spiritual  welfare.  My  dear 
Bischofswerder,  I appoint  you  colonel,  and  this  shall  be  only 
the  step  from  which  you  will  be  rapidly  promoted  to  the  rank 
of  general ; for  you  not  only  war  bravely  and  daringly  against 
visible  men,  but  also  against  invisible  spirits,  and  it  is  my  holy 
duty  and  privilege  to  reward  the  brave.” 

‘‘Your  majesty,”  said  Bischofswerder,  gently,  “the  only 
reward  I crave  is  your  favor.  I desire  and  solicit  nothing 
more.  The  honors  and  dignities  which  you  shower  upon  me, 
and  of  which  I am  so  undeserving,  only  awaken  anxiety  by 
illumining  my  small  merit,  and  making  my  unworthiness  all 
the  more  conspicuous  before  the  world.  Nevertheless,  I ac- 
cept with  thanks  the  promotion  accorded  me  by  the  grace  of 
my  king,  although  I would  rather  decline  the  honor,  and  re- 
main in  obscurity  in  the  shadow  of  your  throne.  But  I dare 
not,  for  a higher  one  has  commanded  me  to  submit  to  your  be- 
hests, and  I must  obey.” 


m 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


higher  one?”  asked  the  king.  “Who  is  he?  Who 
commands  here  besides  myself?” 

“Your  majesty,  the  spirits  of  the  great  dead — the  Invisible, 
whose  power  is  greater  than  that  of  all  the  visible,  however 
great  and  mighty  they  may  be!” 

The  king  had  asked  this  question  with  a proud  and  haughty 
glance;  suddenly  his  manner  altered,  his  countenance  as- 
sumed an  humble,  penitent  look,  his  head  sank  down  upon 
his  breast,  and  he  folded  his  hands  as  if  in  prayer.  “ I am  a 
sinner  and  a criminal,”  he  murmured.  “ In  the  pride  of  my 
new  dignity  I forgot  my  superiors ; and  the  little  visible  creat- 
ure dared  to  consider  himself  the  equal  of  the  Invisible! 
I now  repent,  beg  for  mercy,  and  am  ready  to  yield  obedience 
to  my  superiors. — They  have  then  spoken  to  you  again,  these 
superior  beings?  They  have  imparted  to  you  their  wishes?” 

“ Your  majesty,”  said  Bischofswerder,  in  a mysterious  whis- 
per, “ while  sleeping  last  night,  I was  suddenly  awakened  by 
a wondrous  radiance,  and  I sprang  from  my  bed,  believing 
that  fire  had  broken  out  and  enveloped  my  room  in  fiames ; 
but  I felt  that  a gentle  hand  forced  me  back,  and  I now  saw 
that  the  light  which  had  terrified  me  came  from  a luminous 
countenance,  which  stood  out  in  bold  relief  amid  the  sur- 
rounding darkness.  The  eyes  of  this  countenance  shone  like 
two  heavenly  stars,  shedding  a soft  light  upon  me.  With  a 
celestial  smile  on  its  lips,  the  spirit  spoke  to  me:  ‘Your 
heart  is  humble  and  guileless.  You  have  no  craving  after 
earthly  honors,  and  are  not  attracted  by  grandeur  and  riches; 
but  I command  you  to  arise  from  your  humility,  and  no 
longer  to  withdraw  yourself  from  earthly  honors,  for  those 
whom  the  Invisible  love  must  also  be  recognized  and  elevated 
by  the  visible,  that  their  favor  be  made  manifest  before  men. 
You  will  be  advanced  to-morrow,  and  on  the  ensuing  day  you 
will  receive  a second  advancement;  and  what  your  king  offers 
you  must  accept.  This  is  the  will  of  the  Invisible.  ’ And 
after  this  wonderful  spirit  had  spoken  it  vanished,  and  all 
was  again  enveloped  in  darkness.  I,  however,  lit  a candle, 


THE  FAVORITES. 


131 


in  order  that  I might  have  tangible  proof,  on  arising  the  next 
morning,  that  this  had  been  no  dream ; I wrote  down  on  a 
sheet  of  paper  the  last  words  the  spirit  had  spoken,  and  the 
hour  at  which  it  appeared.  Your  majesty,  I have  brought 
this  paper  with  me  to  show  it  to  my  king.  Here  it  is!’* 

The  king  took  the  writing,  and  read  in  a low  voice:  “You 
will  be  advanced  to-morrow,  and  on  the  ensuing  day  you  will 
receive  a second  advancement ; and  what  the  king  offers  you 
must  accept.  This  is  the  will  of  the  Invisible.  Command 
of  the  radiant  spirit,  given  in  the  night  between  the  sixteenth 
and  seventeenth  of  August,  at  twenty  minutes  past  two.” 

“The  hour  at  which  the  king  died,”  exclaimed  Frederick 
William,  with  astonishment,  “ and  the  hour  at  which  I also 
suddenly  awoke!  Wonderful,  wonderful  indeed!” 

“ Your  majesty,  for  those  endowed  with  intuition  there  are 
no  wonders,”  said  Bischofswerder,  quietly,  “ and  your  majesty 
belongs  to  this  number.” 

“But  only  in  a very  slight  degree,”  sighed  the  king.  “I 
am  still  groping  in  the  twilight ; my  eyes  are  yet  dazzled  by 
the  splendor  of  the  Invisible.” 

“ But  your  majesty  will  advance  steadily  toward  the  source 
of  light;  and  if  the  Invisible  will  permit  me  to  conduct  you 
into  the  holy  temple  of  infinite  knowledge,  I will  esteem  it 
the  greatest  earthly  blessing!” 

“Yes,”  cried  the  king,  in  ecstasy;  “yes,  my  friend,  you 
shall  conduct  me;  and,  at  the  side  of  him  upon  whom  this 
light  has  been  shed,  I will  walk  in  safety  over  the  slippery 
paths  of  life.  Nothing  can  astonish  me  in  the  future,  for  the 
paper  I hold  in  my  hand  is  a miracle,  and  an  evidence  that 
the  Invisible  is  omnipresent  and  omniscient.  At  the  same 
moment  in  which  King  Frederick  died  I awoke  with  a cry, 
and  at  the  same  time  the  spirit  announced  to  you  that  you 
would  be  advanced  by  your  king — by  me,  who  at  that  mo- 
ment became  king!  My  friend,  I beg  you  to  give  me  this 
paper,  this  evidence  of  the  presence  of  the  Invisible': 

Bischofswerder  bowed  profoundly.  “All  that  the  king's 


132 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


consecrating  hand  touches  becomes  his  property,  as  I am  his 
with  all  that  is  mine!” 

‘‘  I thank  you,  colonel,  I thank  you.  Ascend  the  step  to 
honor  which  this  day  offers,  and  let  it  be  my  care  that  the 
prophecy  for  the  ensuing  day  be  also  fulfilled.  And  now,” 
continued  the  king,  turning  to  Wöllner,  who  had  stood  with 
folded  hands,  his  head  bowed  down,  during  this  conversation ; 
^‘and  now,  as  to  you,  Councillor  Wöllner,  you  are  also  deserv- 
ing of  thanks  and  reward.” 

“Far  more  deserving  than  I,  poor  unworthy  man,”  ex- 
claimed Bischofswerder;  “for  Chrysophorus,  the  effulgent, 
belongs  to  the  chosen,  and  is  the  favorite  of  the  Invisible.  If 
your  majesty  empties  the  plenteous  horn  of  your  favor  on  the 
head  of  Chrysophorus,  no  drop  will  be  lost,  but  all  will  fall 
on  good  and  fertile  soil.” 

The  king  greeted  the  noble,  disinterested  friend  with  a 
kindly  smile,  and  then  laid  his  hand  gently  on  Wöllner’s 
shoulder. 

“ Thus  I will  sustain  myself  on  you,  Wöllner,  and  as  I now 
lay  my  right  hand  on  you,  so  will  I make  you  my  right  hand, 
as  I make  Bischofswerder  my  head,  to  think  for  me.  You 
too  shall  be  my  head  and  my  hand.” 

“But  your  heart,  sire?”  asked  Wöllner,  in  his  earnest  and 
solemn  voice.  “Your  heart  you  must  be  yourself,  and  no 
other  human  being  must  be  your  heart  but  the  king  himself.” 

Frederick  William  smiled.  “My  heart,  that  am  I — I the 
king,  but  also  I the  man ; and  the  head  and  hand  which  act 
for  me,  must  also  permit  the  heart  to  act,  as  it  will  and  can! 
Councillor  Wöllner,  has  the  Invisible  announced  nothing  to 
you?  have  you  alone  passed  the  night  in  quiet  slumber?” 

“Your  majesty,”  replied  Wöllner,  with  an  air  of  self- 
reproach,  “I  have  received  no  message  from  the  Invisible;  I 
must  honor  the  truth,  and  acknowledge  that  I have  rarely  en- 
joyed such  peaceful  and  unbroken  slumber  as  in  the  past  night.” 

“ He  slept  the  sleep  of  the  just,”  said  Bischofswerder,  “ and 
the  spirits  kept  watch  at  the  door  of  our  Chrysophorus.” 


THE  FAVORITES. 


133 


“ Well,  then,  I will  announce  to  you  what  the  spirits  did 
not  announce,’"  exclaimed  the  king,  with  vivacity,  Wöllner, 
I appoint  you  Privy  Councillor  of  the  Finances,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  Intendant  of  the  Royal  Bureau  of  Construction.” 

“ Oh,  your  majesty,”  cried  Wöllner,  his  little  gray  eyes 
sparkling  with  joy,  “ that  is  more  than  I deserve,  almost  more 
than  I can  accept.  I do  not  consider  myself  worthy  of  such 
high  distinction;  and  this  favor  far  exceeds  my  merit.  And 
yet,  notwithstanding  the  high  honor  my  king  has  conferred 
upon  me,  I still  dare  prefer  a request ; one,  however,  which 
does  not  spring  from  any  bold  desire  of  my  own,  but  one  which 
the  command  of  the  Invisible  compels  me  to  utter.  I am  not 
actuated  by  earthly  motives,  but  I must  obey  the  behests  of 
the  spirits.” 

‘‘  What  is  this  request,  my  dear  privy  councillor  of  the 
finances?”  asked  the  king,  with  a smile.  “I  give  you  my 
royal  word  that  your  first  request  shall  be  granted.” 

“Your  majesty,  my  request  is  only  this:  Give  me  your 
favor,  your  confidence,  and  your  esteem,  as  long  as  I live.” 

“ This  I promise  you,  but  as  a matter  of  course  I should 
have  been  compelled  to  do  so,  although  you  had  not  asked  me. 
This,  therefore,  we  cannot  consider  a compliance  with  your 
request.  Speak,  Wöllner,  and  prefer  your  other  request.” 

“ Well,  then,  your  majesty,  I beg  to  be  permitted  to  arrange 
King  Frederick’s  papers,  and  prepare  this  literary  legacy  for 
the  press.” 

“ I commission  you  not  only  to  do  so,”  said  the  king,  “ but, 
in  order  to  remove  all  impediments  and  facilitate  your  labors, 
I make  you  a present  of  these  papers,  to  have  and  to  hold  as 
your  own  property.  You  may  print  or  suppress  portions  of 
them,  as  seems  best  to  you.  I make  this  one  condition,  how- 
ever, that  you  do  not  destroy  the  king’s  writings,  manuscripts, 
and  papers,  after  you  have  examined  and  had  them  printed 
as  your  insight  and  judgment  shall  direct ; but  that  you  de- 
posit them  in  the  royal  archives,  set  apart  for  the  preservation 
of  such  documents.” 


134 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


‘‘  Your  commands  shall  be  obeyed  in  every  particular,”  said 
Wöllner,  respectfully,  “ and  that  no  doubts  may  arise  on  this 
subject,  I beg  this  favor  of  your  majesty,  that  you  make  out 
a written  order  to  the  effect  that  all  the  papers  of  the  de- 
ceased king  (whom  I unhappily  cannot  call  the  blessed,  be- 
cause he  lived  in  unbelief  and  darkness)  be  transferred  to  me 
by  the  two  privy  cabinet  councillors  of  the  late  king;  they 
taking  a receipt  for  the  exact  number  of  sheets  counted  out 
to  me,  and  my  written  obligation  to  return  each  and  every 
one  of  them.  And  I will  certainly  make  haste  to  accomplish 
my  task,  for  the  Invisible  has  commanded  me  to  complete  the 
great  work  with  which  I have  been  intrusted  without  delay.” 

‘‘  And  are  you  permitted  to  acquaint  me  with  the  object  of 
this  great  work,  my  friend?”  asked  the  king. 

“ Yes  your  majesty,  I am  not  only  permitted,  but  am  com- 
manded to  do  so ! I am  to  impart  to  you  the  reasons  why  I 
solicit  the  papers  of  the  deceased  king,  and  why  I desire  to 
have  them  printed.  The  object  is,  that  the  eyes  of  your 
majesty’s  subjects  may  be  opened,  and  they  be  brought  to  the 
knowledge  that  he,  whom  freethinkers  and  unbelievers  called 
a shining  light,  was  a mocker  at  all  religion,  and  an  atheist 
who  scoffed  at  all  that  was  holy,  and  did  homage  to  himself, 
the  idol  of  renown  and  heathenish  poetry,  only.  The  Invis- 
ible has  commanded  me  to  unveil  the  scoffing  mind  of  the  un- 
believing king,  and  make  manifest  to  the  world  that  such  a 
one  may  never  hope  to  enter  heaven  and  participate  in  bliss. 
Listen,  my  dear  king  and  master,”  continued  Wöllner,  in  an 
elevated  voice,  as  the  roll  of  drums  announced  the  approach 
of  a body  of  troops ; “listen  to  those  drums  proclaiming  the 
dawn  of  a new  day!  Hail  the  day  which  gives  to  millions  of 
misguided  men  a leader  and  a guide,  destined  to  lead  them 
back  to  the  right  path;  and  to  rear  aloft  the  holy  cross  which 
his  predecessor  trod  under  foot!  Hail  to  your  people,  Freder- 
ick William,  for  you  have  come  to  rebuild  the  Church  of  God! 
Hail  to  thee,  thou  favorite  of  the  Invisible ! hail,  Frederick 
William!” 


THE  FAVORITES. 


135 


And  with  a cry  of  enthusiasm,  Bischofswerder  repeated  the 
words,  “ Hail  to  thee,  thou  favorite  of  the  Invisible ! hail, 
Frederick  William!” 

The  king  had  listened  to  Wöllner  with  downcast  eyes,  and 
fche  joyful  acclamations  of  his  two  friends  seemed  only  to  have 
given  him  disquiet  and  anxiety. 

‘‘I  am  an  unworthy  sinner,”  murmured  the  king,  in  a 
penitent  voice,  ‘‘  and  if  you  do  not  take  pity  on  me  and  in- 
tercede for  me  with  the  Invisible,  I am  a lost  man.  I implore 
you  both  to  sustain  me  with  a helping  hand,  that  I may  not 
fall  to  the  ground.” 

“ The  Invisible  has  commanded  us  to  stay  at  your  side  and 
devote  our  lives  to  your  welfare,”  said  Wöllner,  solemnly. 

“And  even  if  he  had  not,”  cried  Bischofswerder,  feelingly, 
“ my  own  heart  would  have  prompted  me  to  do  so,  for  I am 
my  king’s  alone,  and  am  ready  to  shed  my  blood  for  him. 
Tell  us,  therefore,  what  we  are  to  do,  and  what  is  required  to 
restore  peace  to  your  soul.” 

“Say,  to  my  heart,  my  faithful  friend,”  cried  the  king, 
“ for  it  is  my  heart  that  needs  peace.  I love,  love  with  glow- 
ing passion.  And  yet  I have  sworn  in  the  holy  lodge  of  the 
Invisible  to  dedicate  my  life  to  virtue.  Oh,  tell  me,  tell  me, 
my  friends,  how  can  I keep  my  vow  without  giving  my  heart 
the  death-blow ! Do  not  let  me  sink  in  despair,  but  take  pity 
on  me.  I feel  sick  and  miserable ; the  torment  of  love  and 
the  conflict  with  duty  rob  me  of  all  strength  and  courage. 
Oh,  help  me,  help  me!  You,  my  friend  Bischofswerder,  let 
me  drink  once  more  of  the  elixir  of  life,  which  the  great  ma- 
gician, Cagliostro,  intrusted  you  with;  give  me  once  more 
life,  health,  and  happiness!” 

“Your  majesty  knows,”  replied  Bischofswerder,  “that  I 
gave  you  the  last  drop  of  the  precious  elixir,  given  me  by  the 
great  magician,  to  infuse  new  life  and  health  into  my  veins, 
when  the  hour  of  death  should  draw  near.  I joyfully  deliv- 
ered myself  over  to  death  in  order  that  my  king  might  have  new 
life;  and  I now  learn,  with  the  greatest  sorrow,  that  it  was  not 


136 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


sufficient  to  accomplish  its  object.  But  what  I would  never 
do  for  myself,  I will  now  do  for  my  king.  I will  entreat  the 
Invisible  to  impart  to  me  the  secret  of  the  preparation  of  this 
elixir  of  life;  I will  address  my  thoughts  to  this  magician 
with  all  the  strength  of  my  soul,  and  conjure  him  to  appear 
and  instruct  me  how  to  concoct  the  elixir  of  life  for  my  king 
and  master.” 

“Ah,”  sighed  the  king,  sadly,  “if  it  is  necessary  that  the 
magician  should  appear  here,  personally,  in  order  to  impart 
to  you  this  wonderful  secret,  my  wish  will  probably  never  be 
gratified,  for  Cagliostro  is  at  present,  as  my  ambassador  yes- 
terday informed  me,  in  London ; and  the  believers  are  pour- 
ing into  that  city,  from  all  parts  of  Europe,  to  see  the  sublime 
martyr,  who  languished  in  a French  prison,  on  account  of  the 
unhappy  necklace  affair,  until  his  innocence  was  proved,  when 
he  was  restored  to  liberty,  on  condition  that  he  should  leave 
France  at  once  and  never  recross  its  boundaries.  Cagliostro 
then  went  to  London,  where  he  is  now  receiving  the  homage 
of  his  admirers;  and  there  he  expects  to  remain,  as  he  in- 
formed our  ambassador.  How  can  your  prayers  and  entreat- 
ies have  sufficient  power  to  call  the  magician  here  from  so 
great  a distance?  His  sublime  spirit  is  united  with  the  body, 
and  is  subject  to  finite  laws.” 

“No,  my  king,”  replied  Bischofswerder,  quietly,  “the 
sublime  magician,  Cagliostro  is  uncontrolled  by  these  laws. 
The  miraculous  power  of  his  spirit  governs  the  body,  and  it 
must  obey  his  behests.  I read  in  your  soul  that  you  are  in 
doubt,  my  king,  and  that  you  do  not  believe  in  the  dominion 
of  the  spirit.  But  your  majesty  must  learn  to  do  so,  for  in 
this  belief  only  are  safety  and  eternal  health  to  be  found  for 
you  and  for  us  all.  I will  invoke  the  Invisible  in  the  coming 
night;  and,  if  my  prayer  be  heard,  the  magician  of  the  North 
will  appear  in  our  midst  this  very  night,  to  give  ear  to  my 
entreaties.” 

“ If  this  should  occur,”  cried  the  king,  “ I am  forever  con- 
verted to  this  belief,  and  nothing  can  hereafter  make  me 


THE  FAVORITES. 


137 


waver  in  my  trust  and  confidence  in  you,  my  Bischofs- 
werder!” 

“ It  will  occur,”  said  Bischofswerder,  quietly.  “ I beg  that 
your  majesty  will  call  Chrysophorus  and  myself  to  your  cham- 
ber at  the  next  midnight  hour,  in  order  that  we  may  invoke 
the  Invisible  in  your  presence.” 

“At  the  next  midnight  hour?”  repeated  the  king,  in  con- 
fusion. Bischofswerder’s  quick,  piercing  glance  seemed  to 
read  the  king’s  inmost  thoughts  in  his  embarrassed  manner. 

“I  know,”  said  he,  after  a pause,  “that  your  majesty  in- 
tended to  pass  this  night  in  Charlottenburg  with  your  chil- 
dren and  their  mother;  and  if  your  majesty  commands,  we 
will  meet  there  at  the  midnight  hour.” 

“Do  so,  my  friends,”  said  the  king,  hastily,  “I  will  await 
you  in  Charlottenburg,  at  the  appointed  time,  although  I 
scarcely  believe  you  will  come;  and  doubt,  very  much, 
whether  Bischofswerder’s  incantations  will  have  power  to  call 
the  great  magician  to  my  assistance.  Oh,  I am  greatly  in 
need  of  help.  If  you  are  really  my  friends,  and  if  the  Invis- 
ible has  anointed  your  eyes  with  the  rays  of  knowledge,  you 
also  must  know  what  torments  my  soul  is  undergoing!” 

“And  we  do  know,”  said  Bischofswerder.  “It  has  been 
announced  to  us.” 

“And  we  do  know,”  repeated  Wöllner,  “the  Invisible  has 
commanded  me  to  implore  his  dearest  son.  King  Frederick 
William,  not  to  burden  his  conscience  with  new  sin,  but  to 
renounce  the  passion  which  is  burning  in  his  heart.” 

“I  cannot,  no,  I cannot!”  exclaimed  Frederick  William; 
and  with  a cry  of  anguish  he  buried  his  face  in  his 
hands. 

His  two  confidants  exchanged  a rapid  glance ; and  Bischofs- 
werder, as  if  answering  an  unspoken  but  well-understood 
question  of  Wöllner’s,  shook  his  head  dissentingly.  He  then 
stooped  down  to  the  lamenting,  moaning  king. 

“Your  majesty,”  whispered  he,  “to-night  we  will  also  ask 
the  Invisible  if  he  will  not  have  indulgence  with  the  king’s 


138 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


love;  and  permit  the  beautiful  Fräulein  von  Voss  to  become 
the  wife  of  the  man  she  loves?’' 

“ Oh,  if  this  could  be  brought  about!”  cried  the  king, 
throwing  his  arms  around  his  friend’s  neck,  ‘‘  I could  be  the 
happiest  of  mortals,  and  would  gladly  resign  to  you  my  whole 
kingdom  to  dispose  of  it  as  you  see  fit.  Give  me  the  woman 
I love,  and  I will  give  you  my  royal  authority!” 

Again  the  two  confidants  exchanged  rapid  glances,  and 
Wöllner  bowed  his  head  in  assent. 

“We  will  entreat  the  Invisible  to-night,”  said  Bischofs- 
werder— “ and  I hope  that  he  will  grant  what  your  majesty 
desires.” 

“ But,  if  so,  certain  conditions  will  be  exacted,  and  penance 
enjoined,”  said  Wöllner. 

“ I am  ready  to  consent  to  all  his  demands,  and  to  do  all  he 
enjoins,  if  he  will  only  give  me  this  heavenly  woman.” 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  MAID  OF  HONOR. 

No  intelligence  of  the  demise  of  the  great  king  had  as  yet 
arrived  at  the  palace  of  Schönhausen,  the  residence  of  Queen 
Elizabeth  Christine,  Frederick’s  wife.  It  was  still  early  in 
the  morning,  and  the  queen,  who  was  in  the  habit  of  sending 
a special  courier  to  Potsdam  every  day,  to  inquire  after  the 
king’s  health,  was  now  writing  the  customary  morning  letter 
to  her  husband. 

She  had  just  finished  the  letter,  and  was  folding  the  sheet, 
when  the  door  of  the  adjoining  chamber  was  opened,  and  a 
tall  and  remarkably  beautiful  young  lady  appeared  on  the 
threshold.  Her  rich,  light,  and  unpowdered  hair  fell  in  a 
profusion  of  little  locks  around  her  high-arched  brow.  Her 
large,  almond-shaped  eyes  were  of  a clear,  luminous  blue,  her 
delicately-curved  nose  gave  her  countenance  an  aristocratic 


THE  MAID  OF  HONOR. 


139 


expression ; and  from  her  slightly-pouting  crimson  lips,  Tvhen 
she  smiled,  all  the  little  Cupids  of  love  and  youth  seemed  to 
send  their  arrows  into  the  hearts  of  the  admirers  of  the  lovely 
maid  of  honor,  Julie  von  Voss.  Her  tall  and  slender  figure 
showed  the  delicate  outline  and  the  rich  fulness  which  we 
admire  in  the  statues  of  Venus,  and  there  was,  at  the  same 
time,  something  of  the  dignified,  severe,  and  chaste  Juno  in 
her  whole  appearance — something  unapproachable,  that  de- 
manded deference,  and  kept  her  worshippers  at  a distance, 
after  they  had  been  attracted  by  her  alluring  beauty. 

The  queen  greeted  her  maid  of  honor,  who  bowed  pro- 
foundly, with  a gentle  smile.  You  have  come  for  my  letter, 
have  you  not,  my  child?  The  courier  is  waiting?” 

“ No,  your  majesty,”  replied  the  maid  of  honor,  in  a some- 
what solemn  voice.  “ No,  it  is  not  a question  of  dispatching 
a courier,  but  of  receiving  one  who  begs  to  be  permitted  to 
see  you.  The  valet  of  your  royal  nephew  Frederick  William 
is  in  the  antechamber,  and  desires  to  be  admitted  to  your 
presence.” 

The  queen  arose  from  her  sofa  with  a vivacity  unusual  in 
one  of  her  age.  “ The  valet  of  my  nephew?”  said  Elizabeth 
Christine,  with  quivering  lips — “ and  do  you  know  what 
brings  him  here?” 

“ He  will  impart  his  mission  to  your  majesty  only,”  replied 
the  maid  of  honor ; and  when  the  queen  sank  back  on  the 
sofa,  and  told  her  in  faltering  tones  to  admit  the  courier,  she 
threw  the  door  open,  and  summoned  the  valet  with  a proud 
wave  of  the  hand.  And  straightway  the  broad,  colossal  figure 
of  the  royal  privy  chamberlain  Eietz  appeared  on  the  thresh- 
old. With  a smile  on  his  thick  lips,  and  his  little  gray  eyes 
fixed  intently  on  the  pale  old  lady,  who  stared  at  him  with  an 
expression  of  breathless  anxiety,  the  chamberlain  entered,  and 
walked  across  the  wide  room  to  the  queen’s  sofa  with  the 
greatest  composure,  although  she  had  expressed  no  desire  that 
he  should  do  so. 

“Your  majesty,”  said  he,  without  waiting  permission  to 

iO 


140 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


speak,  I have  been  sent  by  his  majesty  King  Frederick 
William—’’ 

The  queen  interrupted  him  with  a cry  of  anguish.  ‘‘  By 
King  Frederick  William!”  she  repeated,  in  faltering  tones. 
“ He  is  then  dead?” 

“Yes,”  replied  Rietz,  inclining  his  head  slightly.  “Yes, 
King  Frederick  died  last  night ; and  he  who  was  heretofore 
Prince  of  Prussia  is  now  King  of  Prussia.  His  majesty  sends 
the  widowed  queen  his  most  gracious  and  devoted  greeting; 
and  orders  me  to  inform  her  majesty  that  he  will  arrive  here 
during  the  day  to  pay  her  a visit  of  condolence.” 

The  queen  paid  no  attention  to  the  chamberlain’s  words; 
of  all  that  he  had  spoken,  she*  heard  but  this,  that  her  hus- 
band, that  Frederick  the  Great,  was  dead,  that  the  man  she 
had  loved  with  such  fidelity  and  resignation  for  the  last  fifty 
years  was  no  longer  among  the  living. 

“He  is  dead!  Oh,  my  God,  he  is  dead!”  she  cried,  in 
piercing  accents.  “ How  can  life  continue,  how  can  the  world 
exist,  now  that  Frederick  is  no  more!  What  is  to  become  of 
unhappy  Prussia,  when  the  great  king  no  longer  reigns;  what 
can  it  be  without  his  wisdom  and  strength,  and  his  enlight- 
ened mind?” 

“ Your  majesty  forgets  that  the  king  has  a glorious  suc- 
cessor,” remarked  Eietz,  with  cynical  indifference. 

A dark  frown  gathered  on  the  brow  of  the  maid  of  honor, 
Julie  von  Voss,  when  the  chamberlain  uttered  these  imperti- 
nent words;  and  she  glanced  haughtily  at  his  broad,  self- 
complacent  countenance. 

“Leave  the  room,”  said  she,  waving  her  hand  imperiously 
toward  the  door ; “ wait  in  the  antechamber  till  you  are  called 
to  receive  her  majesty’s  reply  and  commands.” 

The  chamberlain’s  countenance  fiushed  with  anger,  but  he 
quickly  suppressed  all  outward  manifestation  of  feeling,  and 
assumed  an  humble  and  respectful  manner. 

“Your  grace  commands,”  said  he,  “and  I am  her  zealous 
and  obedient  servant,  ever  ready  to  do  her  bidding.  And 


THE  MAID  OF  HONOR. 


141 


herein  I know  that  I am  only  fulfilling  the  desire  of  my  royal 
master,  who — 

“Leave  the  room  at  once!”  cried  the  maid  of  honor,  her 
cheeks  fiushing  with  anger. 

“No,”  said  the  queen,  awakening  from  her  sad  reverie; 
“ no,  let  good  Eietz  remain,  dear  Julie.  He  must  tell  me  of 
the  great  dead.  I must  know  how  he  died,  and  hoW  his  last 
hours  passed. — Speak,  Eietz,  tell  me.” 

The  chamberlain  described  the  king’s  last  hours  in  so  ready 
and  adroit  a manner,  managing  to  introduce  the  person  of 
the  new  king  so  cleverly  into  his  narrative,  and  accompanying 
his  remarks  with  such  intelligent  and  significant  looks  at  the 
maid  of  honor,  that  she  blushingly  avoided  his  glances,  and 
pressed  her  lips  firmly  together,  as  if  to  suppress  the  angry 
and  resentful  words  her  rosy  lips  longed  to  utter. 

“ I left  his  majesty  King  Frederick  William  in  the  death- 
chamber,”  said  Eietz,  as  he  finished  his  narrative.  “But, 
even  in  the  depth  of  his  grief  for  his  royal  uncle,  he  thought 
of  the  living  whom  he  loves  so  dearly,  and  commanded  me 
to  hasten  to  Schönhausen,  to  announce  that  he  intended 
to  gratify  the  longings  of  his  heart  by  coming  here,  and 
that — ” 

“Will  not  your  majesty  dismiss  the  messenger?”  inter- 
rupted the  maid  of  honor  in  an  angry  voice. 

“Yes,  he  may  go,”  murmured  Elizabeth  Christine.  “Tell 
the  king  my  nephew  that  I await  him,  and  feel  highly  hon- 
ored by  the  consideration  shown  me.” 

“ Your  majesty,  love  and  admiration  draw  him  to  Schön- 
hausen,” observed  Eietz.  “I  can  assure  you  of  this,  for  the 
king  confides  every  thing  to  me,  and  often  calls  me  his — ” 

“Figaro,”  added  the  maid  of  honor,  with  a contemptuous 
curl  of  her  proud  lips. 

“His  friend,”  continued  Eietz,  without,  as  it  seemed,  hav- 
ing heard  this  cutting  word.  “ I have  the  honor  to  know  all 
my  master’s'  heart-secrets,  and — ” 

“To  be  the  husband  of  Wilhelmine  Enke,”  exclaimed  the 


142 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


maid  of  honor,  passionately.  “ Your  majesty,  will  you  not 
dismiss  the  messenger?” 

“You  may  go,  Eietz,”  said  the  queen,  gently.  But  Eietz 
still  hesitated,  and  fastened  his  gaze  upon  the  young  lady, 
with  a smiling  expression. 

“Your  majesty,”  said  she,  “I  believe  he  is  waiting  fora 
gratuity;  and  we  will  not  be  rid  of  him  until  he  receives  it.” 

Eietz  broke  out  into  loud  laughter,  regardless  of  the  pres- 
ence of  the  mourning  and  weeping  queen.  “ This  is  comical,'' 
he  cried.  “ This  I will  relate  to  his  majesty;  it  will  amuse 
him  to  learn  that  this  young  lady  offers  his  privy  chamberlain 
and  treasurer  a gratuityc  He  will  consider  it  quite  bewitch- 
ing on  her  part,  for  his  majesty  finds  every  thing  she  does  be- 
witching. But  I am  not  waiting  for  a gratuity,  but  for 
permission  to  deliver  to  Mademoiselle  von  Voss  the  messages 
which  his  majesty  intrusted  to  me  for  her  grace,  and  I there- 
fore beg  the  young  lady — 

“ Go  out  of  the  room,  and  wait  in  the  antechamber  until  I 
send  for  you!”  said  the  maid  of  honor,  imperiously. 

“And  will  you  soon  do  so?”  asked  Eietz,  with  unruffled 
composure.  “ I take  the  liberty  to  remark,  that  I have  other 
commissions  to  execute  for  his  majesty,  and  therefore  I ask 
whether  you  will  soon  call  me?” 

“You  have  nothing  to  ask,  but  only  to  obey,”  said  the 
young  lady,  proudly. 

Eietz  shrugged  his  shoulders;  bowed  profoundly  to  the 
queen,  who  was  wholly  occupied  with  her  grief,  and  had  heard 
nothing  of  this  conversation,  and  then  left  the  room  with  a 
firm  step. 

“She  is  very  proud,  very  haughty,”  growled  Eietz  in  a low 
voice,  as  he  threw  himself  into  a chair  in  the  antechamber 
with  such  violence,  that  it  cracked  beneath  him.  “ That  she 
is,  and  it  will  require  much  trouble  to  tame  her.  But  she 
shall  be  tamed  nevertheless;  and  the  day  will  come  when  I 
can  repay  her  abuse  with  interest.  Figaro  she  called  me.  I 
know  very  well  what  that  means;  my  French  education  has 


FIGARO.  * 


143 


not  been  thrown  away.  Yes,  yes,  Figaro!  I understand! 
The  ever-complaisant  servant  of  Count  Almaviva,  and  the 
negotiator  in  the  affair  with  the  beautiful  Eosine.  Oh,  my 
young  lady,  take  care ! I am  the  Figaro,  to-day,  helping  to 
capture  the  fair  Eosine,  in  order  to  deliver  her  over  to  Count 
Almaviva.  But  I,  too,  have  my  beautiful  Susanna;  and  some 
day,  when  Almaviva  wearies  of  his  divine  Eosine,  he  will  turn 
again  to  my  Susanna;  and  you  will  then  be  thrown  in  the 
background.  Figaro ! Ah,  my  lovely  maid  of  honor,  I will 
give  you  cause  to  remember  having  called  me  this  name ! I 
will  speak  to  my  wife  about  this  matter  before  the  day  is 
over!*' 


CHAPTEE  V. 

FIGARO. 

While  Eietz  was  sitting  in  the  antechamber,  in  an  angry 
and  resentful  frame  of  mind,  the  maid  of  honor  was  still  at 
the  queen’s  side,  endeavoring  to  console  her  with  tender 
words  and  entreaties. 

“ After  all,  your  majesty  is  but  suffering  an  imaginary  loss," 
said  the  maid  of  honor  finally,  after  she  had  exhausted  all 
other  grounds  of  consolation.  For  you,  all  will  be  just  as  it 
was  before,  as  it  has  been  for  many  years ; and  it  should  be  all 
the  same  to  your  majesty  whether  the  king  has  died,  or  is 
still  remaining  in  Sans-Souci,  for  you  were  widely  separated 
in  either  case." 

“But  I was  always  with  him  in  thought,"  lamented  Eliza- 
beth Christine.  “ I knew  that  he  lived,  that  we  breathed  the 
same  air-,  that  the  ray  of  sunshine  which  warmed  me,  fell  also 
on  his  dear,  noble  head.  I knew  that  the  eyes  of  the  country 
were  directed  toward  Sans-Souci ; and  that  the  great  king’s 
every  word  found  an  echo  throughout  all  Europe.  It  did  me 
good,  and  was  my  consolation  for  all  other  wants,  that  this 
great  hero  and  king,  who  was  worshipped  and  admired  by  the 


144 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


world,  sometimes  thought  of  his  poor  wife,  in  his  infinite 
goodness,  and  sometimes  shed  a ray  of  light  on  her  dark  and 
solitary  life.  I was  permitted  to  be  at  his  side  on  every  New- 
Year’s-Day,  and  hold  with  him  the  grand  court-reception. 
And  I always  looked  forward  to  this  event  with  rejoicing 
throughout  the  entire  year,  for  he  was  ever  the  first  to  con- 
gratulate me,  although  in  silence ; and  then  he  looked  at  me 
so  kindly  and  mildly  with  his  wondrous  eyes,  that  my  heart 
overflowed  with  happiness  and  bliss.” 

“But  he  never  spoke  to  your  majesty,  the  cruel,  unfeeling 
king!”  said  the  maid  of  honor,  shrugging  her  shoulders. 

“Do  not  abuse  him,”  said  the  queen,  warmly.  “He  was 
not  cruel,  not  unfeeling.  For  if  he  had  been  so,  he  would 
have  sundered  the  tie  which  bound  him  to  the  unloved  woman 
who  had  been  forced  upon  him  when  he  became  king.  But 
he  was  mild  and  gentle;  he  tolerated  me,  and  I was  permitted 
to  love  him  and  call  myself  his,  although  he  was  never  mine. 
Instead  of  banishing  me,  as  he  might  have  done,  he  endured 
me,  and  accorded  me  the  royal  honors  due  his  wife.  True,  I 
have  not  often  seen  him,  and  have  very  rarely  spoken  to 
him ; but  yet  I heard  and  knew  of  him,  and  he  never  per- 
mitted my  birthday  to  pass  without  writing  me  a letter  of 
congratulation.  Once,  however — once  he  went  so  far  in  his 
goodness  as  to  hold  the  New-Year’s  reception  here  in 
Schönhausen,  because  an  accident  which  happened  to  my  foot 
prevented  my  coming  to  Berlin.  Oh,  I shall  never  forget 
that  day,  for  it  was  the  only  time  the  king  visited  me 
here ; and  since  then  it  seems  to  me  that  the  sun  has  never 
set,  but  still  gilds  the  apartments  through  which  Frederick 
had  wandered.  On  that  day,”  continued  the  queen,  with  a 
sad  smile,  absorbed  in  her  recollections  of  the  past,  “ on  that 
day,  something  occurred  which  astonished  the  court,  and  was 
talked  of  in  all  Berlin.  The  king,  who,  on  similar  occasions 
in  the  city,  had  only  looked  at  and  saluted  me  from  a dis- 
tance, walked  uj)  to  my  side,  extended  his  hand,  and  inquired 
after  my  liealth  in  the  most  kind  and  feeling  manner.  I was 


FIGAEO. 


145 


so  confused  and  bewildered  by  this  unexpected  happiness,  that 
I almost  fainted.  My  heart  beat  wildly,  and  I found  no 
strength  to  utter  a single  word  in  reply,  that  is,  if  my  tears 
were  not  an  answer.  * But  since  that  day  the  king  has  never 
spoken  to  me.  The  words,  however,  which  he  then  uttered 
have  always  resounded  in  my  ear  like  sweet  music,  and  will 
lull  me  to  sleep  in  the  hour  of  death.” 

“Oh,”  exclaimed  the  maid  of  honor,  in  astonishment  and 
indignation,  “ how  can  it  be  possible  to  love  in  such  a manner?” 

The  queen,  who  had  entirely  forgotten  that  she  was  not 
speaking  to  herself,  and  that  another  listened  to  her  plaintive 
wail,  raised  her  head  quickly,  her  blue  eyes  sparkling  as  if 
she  had  been  but  seventeen  instead  of  seventy  years  old. 

“ How  could  it  be  possible  not  to  love  in  such  a manner, 
when  one  loved  Frederick  the  Great?”  said  she,  proudly.  “I 
had  made  this  love  my  life,  my  religion,  my  hope  of  immor- 
tality. I gave  to  this  love  my  whole  soul,  my  every  thought 
and  feeling;  and  it  gave  me,  in  return,  joyful  resignation 
and  the  strength  to  endure.  AYithout  this,  my  great,  my 
beautiful  love,  I would  have  perished  in  the  solitude  and  deso- 
lation of  my  being ; but  from  it  my  life  derived  its  support, 
its  enthusiasm,  and  its  perpetual  youth.  Years  have  whitened 
my  hair  and  wrinkled  my  countenance,  but  in  the  poor, 
miserable  body,  in  the  breast  of  this  old  woman,  throbs  the 
heart  of  a young  girl ; and  it  bears  me  on  with  its  youthful 
love,  through  and  beyond  all  time  and  trouble,  to  those  heights 
where  I will  once  more  behold  him,  and  where  he  will,  per- 
haps, requite  the  love  he  here  despised.  Love  never  grows 
old;  when  the  heart  is  filled  with  it,  years  vanish  like  fieeting 
dreams,  and  it  encircles  mortality  with  the  halo  of  undying 
youth!  Therefore  it  must  not  surprise  you,  Julie,  that  the 
old  woman  you  see  before  you  can  speak  of  her  love.  It  was 
the  love  of  my  youth,  and  still  makes  me  young.  And  now 
go,  my  child,  and  leave  me  alone  with  my  recollections,  and 
the  great  dead ! I have  much  to  say  to  him  that  God  only 

♦See  Preuss.— “ Frederick  the  Great,  a Biography,”  vol.  iv. 


146 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


may  hear!  Go,  my  child,  and  if,  at  some  future  day,  you 
should  love  and  suffer,  think  of  this  hour!” 

She  greeted  the  young  lady  with  a gentle  wave  of  the  hand, 
and  as  the  maid  of  honor  left  the  room  she  saw  the  queen  fall 
on  her  knees. 

Slowly,  and  with  her  head  bowed  down,  Julie  von  Voss 
walked  through  the  adjoining  rooms  to  her  own  apartments. 

I will  never  love  like  this,  and  consequently  never  suffer  like 
this,”  said  she  to  herself.  “I  cannot  comprehend  how  one 
can  lose  and  forget  one’s  self  so  completely  in  another,  par- 
ticularly when  this  other  person  does  not  love  as  ardently — 
as  ardently  as  I am  loved  by — ” 

She  stopped  and  blushed,  and  a slight  tremor  ran  through 
her  being.  “ I should  like  to  know  whether  he  loves  me  as 
passionately  as  this  woman  has  loved  her  husband,  whether — 
But,”  exclaimed  she,  interrupting  her  train  of  thought,  “ I had 
entirely  forgotten  that  his  valet  is  waiting  to  deliver  a message.  ” 

Immediately  on  entering  her  parlor,  she  rang  the  bell,  and 
ordered  her  chambermaid  to  show  the  valet,  Eietz,  who  was 
waiting  in  the  queen’s  antechamber,  up  to  her  apartments  at 
once.  She  then  walked  slowly  to  and  fro ; she  sighed  pro- 
foundly, and  her  lips  whispered  in  low  tones,  I do  not  love 
him!  No,  I do  not  love  him;  and  yet  I will  no  longer  be 
able  to  resist  him,  for  they  are  all  against  me;  even  my  own 
relatives  are  ready  to  sacrifice  me.  That  they  may  become 
great,  I am  to  be  trodden  in  the  dust;  and  that  they  may 
live  in  honor,  I am  to  live  in  shame!  But  I will  not!”  she 
cried,  in  a loud  voice;  and  she  stood  proudly  erect,  and  held 
up  her  beautiful  head.  “ No,  I will  not  live  in  shame ; every 
respectable  woman  shall  not  have  the  right  to  point  the  finger 
of  scorn  at  me,  and  place  me  in  the  same  category  with  the 
brazen-faced  wife  of  the  abominable  Eietz ! They  shall  not 
have  the  right  to  call  Julie  von  Voss  the  king’s  mistress! 
No,  they  shall  not,  and — ” 

“The  king’s  privy  chamberlain,”  announced  the  maid,  and 
behind  her  Eietz  walked  into  the  parlor. 


FIGARO. 


147 


‘‘  Poor  Figaro  has  been  compelled  to  wait  a long  time,  my 
lady,”  said  he,  with  a mocking  smile.  Yon  have  treated 
Figaro’s  master,  who  longs  for  an  answer,  very  cruelly.” 

did  not  ask  your  opinion  of  my  conduct,”  said  the  maid 
of  honor,  haughtily.  “You  are  the  king’s  messenger;  speak, 
therefore,  and  execute  his  majesty’s  commands.” 

“ Ah,  this  is  not  a question  of  commands,  but  of  entreaties 
only — the  king’s  entreaties.  His  majesty  begs  that  he  may 
be  permitted  to  see  you  after  he  has  paid  his  visit  of  con- 
dolence to  the  widowed  queen.” 

“ Etiquette  requires  that  I shall  be  present  when  her  maj- 
esty, the  widowed  queen,  receives  his  visit.  And  if  his  majesty 
desires  to  speak  with  me,  I beg  that  he  will  graciously  avail 
himself  of  that  opportunity.” 

“Ah,  but  that  will  not  answer,”  said  Eietz,  with  a smile. 
“ When  his  majesty  expresses  a desire  to  visit  my  lady  here  in 
her  own  apartments,  he  probably  has  something  to  say,  not 
intended  for  the  ears  of  other  ladies.  Perhaps  his  majesty 
wishes  to  speak  with  my  lady  about  the  widowed  queen  and 
her  condition,  and  to  ask  your  advice  as  to  the  proper  ar- 
rangement of  her  household.  I believe  the  king  intends  to 
place  it  on  a far  better  footing,  for  he  spoke  a few  days  since 
with  real  indignation  of  the  paltry  salary  received  by  Queen 
Elizabeth  Christine’s  maids  of  honor — hardly  sufficient  to 
give  them  a decent  support.  The  king  will  consider  himself 
in  duty  bound  to  raise  the  salaries  of  these  ladies ; and  you 
would  certainly  confer  a great  pleasure  on  his  majesty  by 
making  known  to  him  the  amount  you  desire,  and  command 
for  yourself.  And  you  must  not  hesitate  to  mention  a very 
considerable  sum,  for  his  majesty  is  generous,  and  will  be 
happy  to  fulfil  your  wishes.  It  would,  perhaps,  be  well  for 
my  lady  to  give  me  some  hints  in  advance,  in  order  that  I may 
prepare  his  majesty.  I shall  be  inexpressibly  happy  if  my  lady 
will  permit  me  to  be  her  most  devoted  servant,  and  it  might 
also  be  of  great  advantage  to  her,  for  all  Berlin  and  Potsdam 
— yes,  all  Prussia,  knows  that  I am  the  king’s  factotum.” 


148 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


“Did  his  majesty  commission  you  to  utter  all  these  im- 
pertinences?”  asked  Julie,  coldly. 

“How  so, — impertinences?”  asked  Eietz,  bewildered  by  the 
proud  and  inconsiderate  manner  of  the  lady,  who  regarded 
him,  the  almighty  factotum,  so  contemptuously.  “ I have 
not,  I certainly  did  not — ” 

“ Silence ! I listened  to  you  out  of  respect  for  the  king. 
And  now,  out  of  respect  for  myself,  I command  you  to  leave 
the  room  immediately.  I will  ask  his  majesty  if  he  authorized 
his  valet  to  tell  me  any  thing  else  than  that  the  king  intended 
to  honor  me  with  a visit.  Go!” 

She  proudly  turned  her  back  on  the  chamberlain,  and 
walked  through  the  room.  She  felt  that  she  was  suddenly 
held  back.  It  was  Eietz,  who  had  caught  hold  of  her  dress, 
and  he  now  sank  on  his  knees,  and  looked  up  to  her  im- 
ploringly. 

“Forgiveness,  my  lady,  forgiveness!  I have  surely  ex- 
pressed myself  badly,  for  otherwise  my  lady  could  not  desire 
to  leave  the  most  devoted  of  her  servants  in  anger.  I only 
intended  to  say,  that — ” 

“That  you  are  the  wedded  husband  of  Wilhelmine  Enke,” 
cried  the  young  lady  with  a mocking  peal  of  laughter ; and 
she  withdrew  her  garment  as  violently  as  if  a venomous  ser- 
pent had  touched  it.  She  then  left  the  room,  still  laughing, 
and  without  even  once  looking  at  the  kneeling  chamberlain. 

Eietz  arose  from  his  knees;  and  his  countenance,  before  all 
smiles,  now  assumed  a dark  and  malignant  expression.  He 
shook  his  fist  threateningly  toward  the  door  through  which 
she  had  left  the  room,  and  his  lips  muttered  imprecations. 
And  now  he  smiled  grimly.  “Yes,”  said  he,  “I  am  Wilhel- 
mine Enke’s  husband,  and  that  will  be  your  ruin  at  some 
future  day ! Threaten  and  mock  me  as  you  please ; you  are, 
nevertheless,  nothing  better  than  the  bird  that  fiies  into  the 
net  to  eat  the  alluring  red  berries  placed  there  to  entice  it  to 
inevitable  destruction.  The  net  is  set,  the  red  berries  are 
scattered  around ; and  you  will  not  resist  the  temptation,  my 


FIGARO. 


149 


charming  bird;  you  will  be  caught,  and  will  perish!’'  And, 
laughing  maliciously,  he  turned  and  left  the  room. 

The  maid  of  honor,  Julie  von  Voss,  had  not  heard  his 
malignant  words,  and  yet  her  heart  was  filled  with  anxiety 
and  tormenting  disquiet ; and  when  the  door  opened,  and  her 
brother,  the  royal  chamberlain,  Charles  von  Voss,  entered, 
ehe  cried  out  in  terror,  and  sank  into  a chair,  covering  her 
face  with  her  hands. 

‘^But,  Julie,”  said  her  brother,  angrily,  ‘^what  does  this 
childishness  mean — what  is  the  matter?  Why  does  my  pres- 
ence terrify  you?” 

do  not  know,”  said  she,  ^^but  when  you  appeared  in  the 
doorway,  just  now,  it  seemed  to  me  that  I saw  the  tempter 
coming  to  allure  me  to  sin  and  shame!” 

“Very  fiattering,  indeed,”  observed  her  brother,  “but  there 
may  be  something  in  it.  Only  you  forget  to  add  that  the 
tempter  intends  to  offer  you  a world.  What  did  Satan  say  to 
Christ  when  he  had  led  Him  up  a mountain  and  showed  Him 
the  world  at  His  feet?  ‘This  will  I give  Thee  if  thou  wilt 
fall  down  and  worship  me.  ’ Julie,  I also  come  to  offer  you  a 
part  of  the  world ; to  lay  a kingdom,  a crown,  and  a king  at 
your  feet.” 

“Have  you  seen  the  king?  Has  he  spoken  with  you?” 
asked  Julie,  breathlessly. 

“ He  sends  me  in  advance,  as  postilion  d'' amour ^ and  will 
soon  be  here  himself.” 

“I  will  not  see  him,”  cried  the  maid  of  honor,  stretching 
out  both  hands  as  if  to  ward  off*  his  approach.  “No,  never! 
He  shall  not  visit  me ; I will  lock  my  door,  and  not  open  it 
until  he  has  gone,  until  he  ceases  to  pursue  and  torment  me!” 

“My  dear,”  said  he,  quietly,  “I  have  come  to  speak  with 
you  seriously.  You  must  now  come  to  some  decision;  or 
rather,  you  must  decide  to  do  that  which  your  family,  which 
reason,  policy,  ambition,  and  pride  counsel.  You  have 
bound  the  king  in  your  toils  with  admirable  ingenuity,  and  I 
congratulate  you.  No  lion-tamer  can  tame  the  king  of  the 


150 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


desert  more  skilfully,  and  with  greater  success,  than  you  have 
tamed  your  royal  lion,  who  follows  your  footsteps  like  a lamb. 
This  taming  has  been  going  on  for  three  years,  and  your 
cruelty  has  only  had  the  effect  of  making  him  more  tender 
and  affectionate.  But  there  are  limits  to  every  thing,  my 
discreet  sister;  and  if  the  rope  is  drawn  too  tightly,  it  breaks.' 

‘^If  it  would  only  do  so!”  cried  Julie,  despairingly. 
^^That  is  exactly  my  desire,  my  object.  Oh,  my  brother,  you 
and  all  my  cruel  relatives  deceive  yourselves  about  me;  and 
what  you  consider  the  finesse  of  coquetry,  is  only  the  true  and 
open  expression  of  my  feelings ! For  three  years  the  king  has 
pursued  me  with  his  love,  and  for  three  years  I have  met  his 
advances  with  coldness  and  indifference.  In  every  manner, 
by  word,  look,  and  gesture,  have  I given  him  to  understand 
that  his  love  was  annoying,  and  his  attentions  offensive.  Oh, 
that  I could  fly  from  this  unendurable,  fearful  love,  to  the 
uttermost  ends  of  the  world!  But  I cannot  go,  for  I am 
poor,  and  have  not  the  means  to  live  elsewhere,  and  free  my- 
self from  the  terrible  fetters  in  which  you  are  all  endeavoring 
to  bind  me!” 

“ And  besides,  my  dear  sister,  acknowledge  that  your  own 
heart  persuades  you  to  remain.  You  love  the  king?” 

“JSTo,”  she  cried,  passionately,  ^^no,  I do  not  love  him, 
although  I must  admit  that  I have  seen  no  man  I liked  better. 
But  I do  not  love  him ; my  heart  beats  no  quicker  when  he 
approaches,  my  soul  does  not  long  for  him  when  he  is  at  a 
distance;  and  at  times,  when  the  king  is  at  my  side,  a terri- 
ble feeling  of  anxiety  creeps  over  me,  and  I wish  to  flee,  and 
cry  out  to  the  whole  world — ‘Rescue  me,  rescue  me  from  the 
king!’  No,  I do  not  love  the  king;  and  if  I meet  his  ad- 
vances coldly,  it  is  not  from  policy,  but  because  my  heart 
prompts  me  to  do  so.  Therefore,  renounce  all  thought  of 
winning  me  over  to  your  plans.  I will  not  become  the  as- 
sociate of  Wilhelmine  Enke!” 

“And  truly  you  shall  not,”  said  her  brother,  earnestly. 
“ On  the  contrary,  my  beautiful  and  discreet  sister,  you  shall 


FIGARO. 


151 


displace  this  unworthy  person ; you  shall  become  the  benefac- 
tress of  Prussia,  and,  through  you,  virtue  and  morality  shall 
once  more  stand  in  good  repute  at  the  court  of  our  young 
and  amiable  king.” 

The  eyes  of  the  beautiful  maid  of  honor  sparkled,  and  a 
soft  color  suffused  itself  over  her  cheeks.  “ If  that  were  pos- 
sible,” she  cried,  in  joyous  tones — “yes,  if  I could  succeed  in 
delivering  the  king  from  this  unworthy  bondage,  if  I could 
make  this  hateful  person  harmless,  this  indeed  were  an  object 
for  which  much  could  be  endured.” 

“You  hate  her,  then,  this  Wilhelmine  Eietz?” 

“And  who  should  not  hate  her?”  asked  Julie,  passion- 
ately. “ She  is  the  disgrace  of  her  sex;  she  heaps  dishonor 
on  the  head  of  our  noble  and  genial  king ; she  has  caused  his 
wife  so  many  tears,  and — ” 

“And  you,  too,  is  it  not  so?”  asked  her  brother,  smiling. 
“My  beautiful  Julie,  you  have  betrayed  yourself,  you  are 
jealous.  But  one  is  jealous  only  when  one  loves.  Do  not 
longer  deny  it — you  love  the  king.” 

“No,  no,  I do  not,  I will  not  love  him,”  she  cried,  “for 
shame  would  kill  me.  Oh,  my  brother,  I conjure  you,  do 
not  demand  of  me  that  I deliver  myself  over  to  shame ! Take 
pity  on  me,  do  not  force  me  to  abandon  my  quiet  and  peace- 
ful life.  I will  be  contented  to  remain  here  in  this  solitude 
at  the  side  of  the  unhappy  queen,  to  pass  my  days  in  ennui 
and  loneliness.  I am  not  ambitious,  and  do  not  crave  splen- 
dor; permit  me  therefore  to  live  in  seclusion.” 

“No,  my  dear  sister,  we  cannot  permit  you  to  do  so,”  said 
the  chamberlain,  shrugging  his  shoulders.  “ If  it  concerned 
you  alone,  you  could  dispose  of  yourself  as  you  thought  fit. 
But  behind  you  stands  your  family — your  family,  which  has 
been  brought  down  in  the  world  by  all  sorts  of  misfortunes, 
and  is  far  from  occupying  the  position  to  which  it  is  entitled, 
and  to  which  I,  above  all  things,  wish  to  see  it  restored,  for 
I acknowledge  that  I am  ambitious,  my  dear  sister,  and  I de- 
sire to  achieve  eminence.  I am  now  on  the  highway  to  sue- 


152 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


cess,  and  I do  not  intend  that  you  shall  arrest,  but  rather 
that  you  shall  promote,  my  progress.  If  you  reject  the  king’s 
addresses,  of  course  the  whole  family  will  fall  into  disfavor, 
and  that  would  not  be  agreeable,  either  to  myself  or  to  my 
dear  uncle,  the  master  of  ceremonies  of  the  widowed  queen. 
He  wishes  to  become  the  king’s  master  of  ceremonies,  and  I 
wish  to  become  a cabinet  minister.  Apart  from  this,  the 
family  coffers  are  sadly  in  need  of  replenishment.  Our  an- 
cestral castle  is  in  a crumbling  condition,  the  forests  have 
been  cut  down,  the  land  is  badly  cultivated,  and  the  farm- 
houses and  stables  must  be  rebuilt,  for  they  are  only  miserable 
ruins,  in  which  the  half-starved  cattle  find  no  protection 
from  the  weather ; and  it  is  your  mission  to  restore  the  old 
family  Von  Voss  to  its  former  splendor.” 

“By  my  dishonor,  by  my  criminality!”  sighed  Julia  von 
Voss.  “ Oh,  my  mother,  my  dear  mother,  why  did  you  leave 
me,  and  fiy  to  heaven  from  all  this  degradation ! If  you  were 
here,  you  would  protect  me,  and  not  suffer  me  to  be  so  cruelly 
tempted.” 

“You  remind  me  of  our  dear  mother  at  the  right  time, 
Julie.  Do  you  remember  what  she  told  you  on  her  deathbed?” 

“Yes,  my  brother,  I do,”  she  replied,  in  a low  voice. 
“She  said:  ‘You  will  not  be  an  orphan,  for  you  have  your 
brother  to  take  care  of  and  protect  you.  I transfer  all  my 
rights  to  him;  for  the  future,  he  will  be  the  head  of  the  fam- 
ily, and  you  must  love,  honor,  and  obey  him  as  such.’  ” 

“ ‘I  transfer  all  my  rights  to  him;  for  the  future,  he  will 
be  the  head  of  the  family,  and  you  must  love,  honor,  and 
obey  him  as  such, ’”  repeated  her  brother,  in  an  elevated 
voice.  “ Do  not  forget  this,  my  sister.  I,  as  the  head  of  the 
family,  demand  of  you  that  you  become  the  benefactress  of 
your  family,  of  your  queen,  and  of  your  whole  country.  A 
grand  and  holy  task  devolves  upon  you.  You  are  to  liberate 
tlie  land,  the  queen,  and  the  king  himself,  from  the  domina- 
tion of  sin  and  indecorum.  In  a word,  you  are  to  displace 
this  Rietz  and  her  abominable  husband,  and  inaugurate  the 


FIGARO. 


153 


reign  of  virtue  and  morality  in  this  court.  Truly,  this  is  a 
noble  mission,  and  one  well  worthy  of  my  beautiful  sister.” 

“ It  will  not  succeed,”  said  the  maid  of  honor.  “ The  king 
will  never  consent  to  banish  this  hateful  Rietz.” 

‘‘  The  greater  would  he  the  honor,  if  you  succeeded  in 
liberating  the  king  from  this  scandalous  woman,  the  queen 
from  this  serpent,  and  the  country  from  these  vampires. 
Ah,  the  whole  royal  family,  yes,  all  Prussia,  would  bless  you, 
if  you  could  overthrow  this  Eietz  and  her  self-styled  husband!” 

“Yes,”  said  Julie,  in  a low  voice,  “it  would  be  a sublime 
consummation;  but  I should  have  to  purchase  it  with  my  own 
degradation.  And  that  I will  not — cannot  do.  Brother, 
my  dear  brother,  be  merciful,  and  do  not  demand  of  me  what 
is  impossible  and  horrible.  The  daughter  of  my  mother  can 
never  become  a king’s  mistress!” 

“And  who  said  that  you  should?  Truly,  I would  be  the 
last  to  require  that  of  you.  No,  not  the  mistress,  but  the 
wife  of  the  king.  You  shall  become  his  wedded  wife;  and 
your  rightful  marriage  shall  be  blessed  by  a minister  of  the 
Reformed  Church!” 

“But  that  is  impossible!”  exclaimed  the  maid  of  honor, 
whose  eyes  sparkled  with  joy,  against  her  will,  “ that  cannot 
be.  The  queen  lives,  and  she  is  the  king’s  wedded  wife.” 

“Yes,  the  wedded  wife  of  the  right  hand,”  said  her 
brother,  quietly;  “but  the  king,  like  every  other  mortal,  has 
two  hands ; and  he  has  a privilege  which  other  mortals  have 
not — the  privilege  of  wedding  a wife  on  the  left  hand.” 

“ Impossible,  quite  impossible,  as  long  as  the  wife  of  the 
right  hand  lives!”  exclaimed  Julie. 

“ Of  that,  the  consistory  of  church  matters  is  alone  com- 
petent to  decide,”  replied  her  brother,  with  composure;  “or 
rather,  I expressed  myself  badly,  the  consistory  has  only  a 
deliberative  voice ; and  the  decision  rests  with  the  king  alone, 
who,  in  our  country,  represents  the  church,  and  is  its  head — 
the  evangelical  pope.  It  is  his  province  to  say  whether  such 
a marriage  of  the  left  hand  is  possible,  notwithstanding  a 


154 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


marriage  of  the  right  hand.  Demand  it  of  him ; make  it  a 
condition.  Remember  the  words  which  the  beautiful  Gabri- 
elle  said  to  Henry  the  Fourth,  when  he  inspected  her  dwell- 
ing, and  asked  the  lady  he  adored,  ‘Which  is  the  way  to  your 
chamber?’  ‘Sire,’  she  replied,  ‘the  way  to  my  chamber  goes 
through  the  church.  ’ Remember  this  when  you  speak  to  the 
king.” 

“ Be  assured,  I will  remember  it,*'  cried  Julie,  with  glowing 
cheeks,  and  a proud,  joyous  smile.  “ I will  make  my  con- 
ditions ; and  only  when  the  king  fulfils  them  will  I be  his, 
and—" 

“ And,  why  do  you  pause,  and  why  is  your  face  crimsoned 
with  blushes  all  at  once?  Ah!  you  hear  an  equipage  rolling 
up  the  avenue,  and  your  tender  heart  says  the  king,  your 
future  husband,  is  approaching.  Yes,  my  beautiful  sister," 
continued  her  brother,  as  he  stepped  to  the  window  and  looked 
out;  “ yes,  it  is  the  king.  Now  prepare  yourself,  my  wise  and 
discreet  Julie;  prepare  to  give  your  royal  lover  a worthy  re- 
ception. For,  of  course,  you  will  receive  him?  And  I may 
tell — I may  tell  his  majesty  that  you  welcome  his  visit  joy- 
fully?" 

“ No,  oh  no,"  murmured  the  maid  of  honor,  with  trembling 
lips.  “ I am  not  prepared ; I am  not  composed ; I cannot 
receive  the  king  now!" 

“No  childishness,"  said  her  brother,  severely.  “You  will 
have  sufficient  time  to  compose  yourself.  The  king  must  first 
pay  his  respects  to  the  widowed  queen,  and  the  visit  of  con- 
dolence will  last  at  least  a quarter  of  an  hour.  I must  now 
leave  you ; but  remember  that  the  fortunes  of  your  family, 
and  of  the  whole  country,  are  in  your  hands,  and  act  ac- 
cordingly !*' 

He  left  the  room  hastily,  without  awaiting  a reply,  and 
went  down  to  the  grand  audience-chamber,  where  the  court' 
iers  and  cavaliers  were  assembled.  The  king  had  already  re- 
tired with  the  widowed  queen  to  lier  library. 

On  entering  the  chamber,  he  immediately  walked  up  to  his 


FIGAKO. 


155 


intimate  acquaintance,  Bischofswerder,  the  newly-created 
<;olonel,  who  had  accompanied  the  king  to  Schönhausen. 

“ It  will  succeed,”  said  he,  in  a low  voice,  “ our  great  ends 
Vill  be  attained;  we  will  conquer  our  enemies,  and  secure 
dominion  for  ourselves  and  the  invisible  fathers.  My  sister 
loves  the  king,  but  she  has  been  virtuously  reared,  and  would 
rather  renounce  the  king  and  her  love,  than  sacrifice  her 
moral  principles.” 

“ She  is,  therefore,  the  more  worthy  of  the  high  mission  to 
which  she  has  been  called  by  the  will  of  the  Invisible,”  said 
Bischofswerder,  emphatically.  “ She  shall  rescue  our  loved 
master  and  king  from  the  arms  of  sin,  and  lead  him  back  to 
the  path  of  virtue  with  the  hand  of  love,  sanctified  and  con- 
secrated by  these  noble  ends.” 

But  she  demands  another  consecration.  The  consecration 
Df  a lawful  marriage.  If  this  can  be  procured,  my  sister 
will  always  be  our  obedient  and  devoted  friend,  and,  through 
(ler  instrumentality,  we — that  is,  the  Invisible — will  establish 
our  rule.” 

“Her  desire  is  certainly  a bold  one,”  said  Bischofswerder. 
“But  we  must  endeavor  to  fulfil  it.  We  will  speak  with  our 
wise  friend  Wöllner  on  this  subject;  and  will  also  lay  the 
noble  young  lady’s  request  at  the  feet  of  the  sublime  grand- 
kophta,  and  master  of  the  invisible  lodge.” 

“Is  he  here,  the  great  grand-kophta?”  asked  Charles  von 
Voss,  eagerly.  “ Then  what  the  circle-director  announced 
yesterday  in  the  assembly  was  really  true,  and  the  grand- 
kophta  is  in  our  midst.” 

“ He  was  with  us  in  that  assembly,  we  were  all  enveloped  in 
the  atmosphere  of  his  glory,  but  it  is  only  given  to  the 
initiated  of  the  first  rank,  to  know  when  the  Invisible  is  near. 
Oh,  my  friend,  I pitied  you  yesterday,  while  in  the  assembly; 
lamented  that  you  should  still  stand  in  the  antechamber  of 
the  temple,  and  not  yet  have  been  permitted  to  enter  the 
inner  sanctuary.” 

“But  what  must  I do  before  I am  permitted  to  enter?” 

11 


156 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


asked  Charles  von  Voss,  in  imploring  tones.  “ Oh,  tell  me, 
my  dear,  my  enviable,  my  illustrious  friend,  what  must  I do 
to  advance  myself  and  become  a participant  of  the  inestima- 
ble privilege  of  being  permitted  to  enter  the  inner  sanctuary, 
and  belong  to  the  band  of  the  initiated?” 

“ You  must  belong  to  the  band  of  the  believing,  the  hope- 
ful, and  the  obedient.  You  must  prove  to  the  Invisible,  by 
unconditional  submission,  that  you  are  an  obedient  instru- 
ment; and  then  you  will  be  called!” 

“ And  by  what  token  will  I know  that  such  is  the  case?” 

“ You  will  receive  a visible  sign  of  the  satisfaction  of  the 
Invisible.  When  you  and  we  succeed,  with  his  assistance,  in 
establishing  the  dominion  of  the  Invisible  so  firmly  that  he 
will  rule  Prussia;  when  Eietz  and  her  whole  faction  of  the 
unbelieving  are  made  harmless  and  destroyed;  when,  through 
your  sister’s  instrumentality,  virtue  and  propriety  once  more 
regulate  and  sanctify  the  king’s  private  life — then,  my  friend, 
the  Invisible  will  give  you  a visible  token  of  his  satisfaction, 
and  will  make  the  Chamberlain  von  Voss,  the  Minister  of 
State  von  Voss.” 

“Oh,  my  dear,  my  mighty  friend!”  cried  the  chamberlain 
joyfully;  “ I will  do  all  that  the  superiors  desire.  I will  have 
no  will  of  my  own.  I will  be  an  instrument  in  their  hands  in 
order  that  I may  finally — ” 

“The  king!”  cried  the  chamberlain  of  the  day,  as  he 
threw  open  the  folding  doors  of  the  antechamber.  “ The 
king!” 

And  amid  the  profound  silence  of  his  courtiers,  who  bowed 
their  proud  heads  respectfully.  King  Frederick  William  en- 
tered the  audience  chamber,  on  his  return  from  the  visit  of 
condolence  paid  to  the  mourning  widow  of  Frederick.  He 
cast  a quick  glance  around  the  chamber,  and,  observing  the 
Chamberlain  von  Voss,  beckoned  him  to  approach. 

In  obedience  to  the  king’s  command,  the  chamberlain 
walked  forward.  “Well,”  said  the  king  in  a low  voice, 
“ what  does  your  sister  say?” 


THE  ALLIANCE. 


157 


“ Your  majesty,  she  said  but  little  to  me,  but  she  will  have 
a great  deal  to  say  to  your  majesty.” 

“ She  is  then  ready  to  receive  me?”  said  the  king,  his  coun- 
tenance radiant  with  joy. 

“ Your  majesty,  my  sister  is  awaiting  you,  and  I will  con- 
duct you  to  her,  if  your  majesty  will  graciously  follow.” 

‘‘Come,”  replied  the  king,  and,  without  honoring  his 
courtiers  with  a glance,  the  king  followed  the  Chamberlain 
von  Voss  out  of  the  audience-chamber. 


CHAPTEK  VI. 

THE  ALLIANCE. 

WiLHELMiNE  Eietz  had  passed  the  whole  day  in  a state  of 
great  excitement.  King  Frederick  was  dead ! Public  rumor 
had  communicated  this  intelligence;  it  had  flown  on  the 
wings  of  the  wind  from  Sans-Souci  to  Potsdam,  from  Pots- 
dam to  Charlottenburg  and  Berlin,  and  thence  to  all  the 
towns  and  villages  of  the  Prussian  monarchy. 

King  Frederick  the  Great  was  dead!  This  report  was 
uttered  in  wailing  accents  all  over  the  country ; and  fllled  the 
eyes  of  millions  of  faithful  subjects  and  admirers  of  Frederick 
with  tears.  This  report  also  conveyed  the  tidings  to  the  be- 
loved of  the  prince  royal,  that  she  was  now  the  beloved  of  a 
king. 

But  Wilhelmine  would  have  much  preferred  to  hear  it  from 
himself;  to  receive  a visible  proof  that  her  image  still  fllled 
the  king’s  heart,  and  that  the  clouds  of  incense  rising  around 
the  new  monarchy  had  not  dimmed  the  recollections  of  the 
past. 

Long  hours  of  anxious  expectation  passed,  and  when  the 
clock  struck  the  hour  of  noon  and  no  messenger  had  arrived, 
she  was  seized  with  unutterable  fear.  At  last  at  about  two 
o’clock,  her  son  Alexander  arrived  at  Charlottenburg,  with 
his  tutor  Mr.  Von  Chapuis,  “ at  the  king’s  command,”  as  the 


158 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


tutor  announced.  Nor  could  he  give  her  any  further  infor- 
mation, for  he  had  not  seen  the  king  himself  but  had  received 
this  command  from  the  mouth  of  the  valet,  Eietz. 

‘‘  That  is  a bad  sign,  a very  bad  sign!'’  murmured  Wilhel- 
mine  to  herself  when  she  was  again  alone.  “ He  sends  my 
son  to  a distance,  in  order  to  give  no  offence  to  his  new  court 
at  Potsdam.  He  does  not  love  me ; if  he  did,  he  would  have 
the  courage  to  defy  the  prejudices  of  the  world.  Ah!  he 
loves  me  no  longer,  and  henceforth  I will  he  nqthing  more  than 
the  despised,  discarded  mistress,  to  be  greeted  with  derisive 
laughter  by  every  passer-by,  and  to  have  cause  for  congrat- 
ulation if  she  can  hide  her  shame  in  some  obscure  corner  of 
the  earth,  where  she  might  escape  the  scornful  looks  and 
stinging  words  of  mankind.  But  this  shall  never  be;  no,  I 
will  not  be  discarded — will  not  be  trodden  in  the  dust.  And 
now,  Wilhelmine,"  she  continued,  with  sparkling  eyes  and 
glowing  cheeks,  ‘‘now  prove  that  you  are  no  weak,  no  or- 
dinary creature ; prove  that  you  possess  wisdom,  courage  and 
energy.  Fight  for  your  existence,  for  your  future,  for  your 
love ! For  I do  love  him,  and  I cannot  live  without  him. 
And  I will  not  live  without  him!"  she  cried  loudly  and  em- 
phatically. “ He  is  the  father  of  my  children ; he  is  my  hope 
and  my  future.  Without  him  I am  a despised  creature;  with 
him  I am  a lady  of  distinction,  who  is  flattered  and  courted 
in  the  most  devoted  manner ; and  only  abused  and  ridiculed 
behind  her  back.  But  continue  to  abuse  and  ridicule  me,  my 
triumph  will  be  all  the  greater,  when  you  must  nevertheless 
bend  the  knee  and  do  homage  to  the  hated  person.  I have 
borne  and  endured  a great  deal  for  the  poor  prince-royal 
Frederick  William,  and  now  I demand  compensation  and  re- 
ward at  the  hands  of  the  rich  King  Frederick  William.  Nq  , 
I will  not  be  put  aside ! As  long  as  I live,  I will  fight  for  my 
existence,  and  fight  with  the  weapons  of  strategy  and  force, 
of  intrigue  and  flattery.  Ah,  I rejoice  in  the  prospect.  Yes, 
I really  rejoice  in  it!  At  all  events,  it  will  lend  an  additional 
eharm  to  life,  and  be  a change  and  a diversion!" 


THE  ALLIANCE. 


159 


“The  privy-chamberlain  and  treasurer  of  the  king!”  an- 
nounced the  servant,  entering  the  room. 

“Who  is  that?”  asked  Wilhelmine  in  astonishment.  “I 
know  no  such  gentleman.” 

“ I am  the  gentleman,  my  dear  wife,  my  adored  Wilhel- 
mine,” said  Eietz,  laughing  loudly,  as  he  followed  the  servant 
into  the  room.  “ In  me,  my  dear  wife,  you  see  the  privy- 
chamberlain  and  treasurer,  fresh  as  a newly-baked  loaf  from 
the  oven  of  royal  favor.” 

“Leave  the  room,  Jean,”  said  Wilhelmine,  who,  impelled 
perhaps  by  curiosity,  gave  himself  the  appearance  of  being 
busily  occupied  in  arranging  the  room. 

“No,  my  dear  wife,”  said  Eietz,  beckoning  to  the  servant, 
“ have  the  goodness  to  permit  Jean  to  remain  a moment  until 
I have  given  him  my  orders. — Jean,  I am  hungry,  and  feel 
an  irresistible  inclination  to  eat.  Bring  me  something  enjoy- 
able, right  away — for  instance,  a goose-liver  pie,  or  a pheas- 
ant, or  both.  You  can  also  bring  some  caviar  and  a piece  of 
venison.  And  then  have  a bottle  of  champagne  brought  up 
and  placed  on  ice ; it  is  abominably  warm  to-day,  and  I need 
something  cooling.  Be  quick,  Jean.” 

The  servant  made  no  reply,  but  looked  inquiringly  at  his 
mistress.  Eietz  caught  this  look,  and  laughed  loudly.  “ I 
really  believe  this  simpleton  entertains  the  daring  idea  of  not 
obeying  me,  his  master!” 

“Excuse  me,  sir,”  murmured  the  servant,  timidly,  “but 
my  services  were  engaged  by  this  lady.” 

“Yes,  certainly;  but  you  well  know,  you  rascal,  that  I am 
the^master,  and  that  this  lady  is  my  wife,  and — ” 

“Enough,”  interrupted  Wilhelmine,  gravely.  “Set  the 
table  in  the  dining-room,  Jean,  and  be  quick!” 

“ Well  spoken, Wilhelmine;  let  me  kiss  you  for  it,  my  treas- 
ure !”  cried  Eietz,  walking  with  extended  arms  toward  his  wife, 
while  the  servant  was  opening  the  door.  But  the  door  had 
scarcely  closed  when  he  let  his  arms  fall,  and  recoiled  timidly 
from  Wilhelmine,  who  stood  before  him  with  flashing  eyes. 


160 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


‘‘Sir/'  said  she,  her  voice  trembling  with  anger;  “sir,  I 
forbid  you  to  take  such  liberties,  and  use  such  familiar  lan- 
guage in  the  presence  of  my  servant.” 

“But,  madame,”  replied  Eietz,  smiling,  “it  is  only  in  the 
presence  of  your  servant  that  I can  use  such  language ; and  it 
seems  to  me  that  it  suits  my  role  very  well.  I have  the  honor 
to  figure  before  the  world  as  your  husband,  consequently  I 
should  play  my  role  respectably  before  men,  and  prove  that 
we  are  a happy  and  contented  pair.  The  wickedness  and 
malice  of  mankind  are  great ; and  if  men  should  observe  that 
I spoke  to  you  with  less  tenderness,  your  enemies  would  cer- 
tainly spread  the  report,  that  we  were  living  together  un- 
happily.” 

“ I must  inform  you,  sir,  that  I have  no  desire  whatever  to 
jest,”  cried  Wilhelmine,  impatiently.  “ Have  the  goodness  to 
be  serious.  Now,  that  we  are  alone,  I beg  that  you  will  not 
attempt  to  keep  up  the  absurd  farce  of  our  so-called  marriage.” 

“And  had  enough  it  is  for  me  that  it  is  only  a farce,” 
sighed  Eietz,  impressively.  “ I would — ” 

The  angry  look  which  Wilhelmine  bestowed  upon  him,  re- 
pressed his  words,  and  he  quickly  assumed  a melancholy,  sub- 
missive manner.  “I  am  silent,  madame,  I am  silent,”  said 
he,  bowing  profoundly,  and  with  an  air  of  deep  pathos.  “ I 
am  your  most  submissive  servant,  nothing  else;  and,  having 
now  paid  my  homage  to  the  sun,  I will  retire,  as  its  splendor 
has  dazzled  my  eyes.” 

He  crossed  his  arms  before  his  breast,  bowed  to  the  earth 
before  his  mistress,  as  the  slaves  do  in  the  east,  and  then  arose 
and  walked  rapidly  toward  the  door. 

“Where  are  you  going,  sir?”  asked  Wilhelmine.  “Why 
do  you  not  remain  here?” 

“I  cannot,  mistress,”  said  he,  humbly.  “The  Moor  has 
done  his  duty ! The  Moor  can  go ! So  it  reads  at  least  in 
Frederick  Schiller’s  new  piece,  the  one  given  at  the  theatre  a 
short  time  ago.” 

“ But  you  have  not  yet  done  your  duty,”  said  Wilhelmine, 


THE  ALLIANCE. 


161 


smiling  involuntarily.  “ You  have  not  yet  delivered  your 
message.” 

“What  message?”  asked  Eietz,  with  a pretence  of  astonish- 
ment. 

“ His  majesty’s  message.  For  he  it  was,  undoubtedly,  who 
sent  you  here.” 

“You  are  right,”  said  Eietz,  with  an  air  of  indifference. 
“Yes,  that  is  true.  I had  forgotten  it.  Good  heavens!  I 
have  received  so  many  commissions  to-day,  and  been  sent  to 
so  many  ladies,  that  I forget  the  one  in  the  other.  I am  now 
playing  a very  important  role.  I am  the  Figaro  of  my  mas- 
ter Almaviva — the  Figaro  who  has  to  help  his  master  in 
carrying  off  his  beautiful  cousin.  You  know  the  piece,  of 
course,  the  delightfully  good-for-nothing  piece,  that  created 
such  a furor  in  France,  and  consequently  here  with  us 
also?” 

“Yes,  I do,  Eietz;  and  I beg  you  not  to  stretch  me  on  the 
rack  with  your  drollery!  What  did  the  king  say?  What 
messages  did  he  entrust  to  you?” 

“Oh,  madame!  You  cannot  require  of  me  that  I should 
betray  Count  Almaviva’s  confidence,  and  impart  to  you  the 
messages  entrusted  to  me?”  cried  Figaro  Eietz,  with  noble 
indignation.  “ I have  only  to  impart  that  which  concerns  my 
beautiful  Susanna;  and  that  is,  his  majesty  is  coming  here 
this  evening,  and  his  rooms  are  to  be  held  in  readiness.  He 
will  first  take  tea,  and  then  adjourn  to  the  little  laboratory  to 
do  some  little  cooking  and  brewing.” 

Wilhelmine’s  countenance,  before  bright  and  animated, 
darkened  as  the  privy-chamberlain  uttered  these  last  words. 

“ The  king  intends  to  work  in  the  laboratory?  Then  he  is 
not  coming  alone?” 

“ He  is  coming  alone,  but  I expect  his  assistants  and  teach- 
ers, the  two  great  heroes  of  the  invisible  lodge,  will  follow  at 
a later  hour,  in  order  to  make  a little  ‘hocus  pocus’  for  his 
majesty — that  is,  I expressed  myself  badly — I wished  to  say, 
in  order  to  work  with  his  majesty  in  the  secret  sciences. 


162 


GOETHE  AND  ÖCHILLER. 


Yes,  the  two  great  luminaries  are  coming,  and  if  I could  be 
permitted  to  give  you  my  advice — but  no,  so  wise  and  en- 
lightened a lady  as  yourself  can  have  no  need  of  the  advice  of 
so  foolish  and  ridiculous  a fellow  as  I am.  I am  therefore 
silent,  and  will  now  retire,  in  order  to  strengthen  my  body  at 
least,  as  my  mind  is  of  so  hopelessly  weak  a constitution,  that 
all  endeavors  in  that  direction  would  be  thrown  away.  My 
gracious  queen,  I beg  that  you  will  now  kindly  dismiss  me!’' 
He  made  a ceremonious  bow,  and  then  retired  towards  the 
door,  walking  backwards. 

“Eietz,  remain!”  commanded  Wilhelmine,  imperiously. 

“ Impossible,  my  queen.  My  message  is  delivered ; and  the 
Moor  not  only  can,  but  will  go.” 

‘‘Eemain,  Eietz;  I beg  you  to  do  so,”  said  Wilhelmine,  ad- 
vancing a step  nearer. 

“When  the  stomach  commands,”  said  Eietz,  shrugging  his 
shoulders,  “ the  entreaties  of  the  most  beautiful  of  women  are 
of  no  avail.” 

“Well,  then  go  and  eat,”  cried  Wilhelmine,  impatiently. 
“And  when  you  have  done  eating,  come  back  to  my  room!” 

“ Nor  can  I do  that,  my  queen.  I must  then  ride  to  Pots- 
dam, where,  by  the  king’s  command,  I am  to  hold  a secret 
and  important  conference  with  her  majesty,  the  queen,  that 
is,  with  her  majesty  of  the  right  hand.  I must,  therefore, 
hoist  anchor  and  sail  again  as  soon  as  I have  eaten,  and — ” 

“ Well  then,”  said  Wilhelmine,  with  determination,  “ I will 
accompany  you  to  the  dining-room,  and  we  will  converse 
while  you  are  eating.” 

“Bravo!  bravo!  That  was  what  I desired!”  cried  Eietz, 
laughing.  “ The  servants  shall  see  in  how  heavenly  an  under- 
standing we  live  together ; and  how  careful  my  wife  is  not  to 
lose  her  husband’s  society  for  a moment.  Give  me  5^our  arm, 
madam,  and  lead  me  to  the  dining-room.” 

With  a forced  smile  slie  took  his  arm,  and  permitted  him 
to  conduct  her  tliroiigh  the  parlor  to  the  dining-room.  Jean 
had  served  up  all  manner  of  delicacies  on  a little  table,  and 


THE  ALLIANCE. 


163 


was  now  occupied,  at  the  sideboard,  in  breaking  ice  for  the 
champagne. 

“Put  a bottle  of  Ehine  wine  on  the  ice,  too,  Jean,’'  cried 
Rietz,  imperiously,  as  he  seated  himself  comfortably  in  the 
chair,  leaving  his  “ wife”  to  find  one  for  herself  and  bring  it 
up  to  the  table,  at  which  he  had  already  made  an  assault  on  a 
truffle-pie.  “ Magnificent!”  said  he,  after  eating  a few  mor- 
sels, “I  must  tell  you,  my  dearest  Wilhelmine,  there  is  noth- 
ing better  than  a truffle-pie!” 

Wilhelmine  turned  impatiently  to  the  servant,  who  was 
turning  the  wine  in  the  freezer:  “ You  can  now  go,  Jean,  the 
gentleman  will  wait  on  himself.” 

“And  my  champagne!”  exclaimed  Eietz.  But,  with  an 
imperious  gesture,  Wilhelmine  dismissed  the  servant. 

“Now  we  are  alone,”  said  Wilhelmine.  “Now  you  can 
oeak.  You  wished  to  give  me  your  advice.” 

“ Madam,”  rejoined  Eietz,  as  he  carried  a savory  morsel  to 
is  mouth ; “ madam,  at  this  moment  I can  advise  you  to  do 
but  one  thing,  and  that  is,  to  try  this  truffle-pie,  it  is  truly 
magnificent!” 

“You  are  cruel,”  cried  Wilhelmine,  “you  torture  me!” 

“Say  rather,  madam,  that  you  are  cruel,”  said  Eietz,  rising 
from  the  table  to  go  after  the  champagne.  “ It  is  truly  cruel 
to  compel  a man  to  arise,  in  the  midst  of  the  delights  of  the 
table,  and  wait  on  himself ! Champagne  loses  its  fiavor  when 
one  has  to  pour  it  out  himself!” 

“I  will  wait  on  you,  sir!”  cried  Wilhelmine,  rising  with 
vivacity,  and  taking  the  bottle  in  her  hands. 

Eietz  nodded  complacently.  “That  is  right.  That  is 
piquant,  and  will  season  my  repast.  The  almighty  queen  of 
the  left  hand  waits  on  her  submissive  husband  of  the  left 
hand.  The  mistress  becomes  the  slave,  the  slave  the  master ! 
This  is  a charming  riddle,  is  it  not?  But  I tell  you,  madame, 
it  is  not  the  last  riddle  we  will  propound!  Oh,  very  many 
riddles  will  now  be  propounded ; and  some  people  would  be 
very  happy  if  they  could  find  the  right  solution.” 


164 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


You  wished  to  give  me  good  advice  concerning  the  two 
favorites,”  said  Wilhelmine,  with  a smile,  that  cost  her  proud 
heart  much  humiliation.  “Speak,  therefore,  my  dear  Kietz! 
Give  me  your  advice!” 

Eietz  held  his  glass  up  to  the  light,  and  gazed  smilingly  at 
the  rising  bubbles.  “ That  reminds  me  of  my  old  friend,  the 
burgomaster  of  Stargard,  the  dear  place  of  my  nativity.  The 
good  Burgomaster  Funk,  was  a true  child  of  Pomerania,  who 
despised  High-German,  and  would  have  spoken  Low-German, 
even  with  the  king.  Speaking  Low-German,  and  eating  din- 
ner was  his  passion.  And  I have  often  thought,  when  I saw* 
him  sitting  at  the  dinner-table,  with  so  reverent  and  pious  ai 
countenance,  that  the  old  gentleman  fancied  himself  in 
church,  administering  the  sacrament  as  a priest.  He  applied 
himself  with  such  heavenly  tranquillity  to  the  delights  of  the 
table,  permitting  nothing  in  the  world  to  disturb  him  white 
so  engaged.” 

“ But  I cannot  comprehend  what  the  recollections  of  your 
happy  youth  have  to  do  with  the  advice  you  desired  to  give.*' 

“You  will  soon  do  so,  my  queen,”  said  Eietz,  slowly  empty* 
ing  his  glass.  “ And  yet  permit  me  to  dwell  a little  longer 
on  the  recollections  of  my  dear  old  master.  For  you  must 
know  that  this  good  old  gentleman  was  my  master;  under 
him  I learned  the  arts  of  a valet,  writer,  and  confidant,  and 
all  the  little  artifices  and  stratagems  by  which  a valet  makes 
himself  his  master’s  factotum.  Truly  the  king  is  greatly  in- 
debted to  the  burgomaster ; without  him  he  would  never  have 
been  the  possessor  of  so  excellent  a factotum  as  the  privy- 
chamberlain  and  treasurer  Eietz.  At  the  same  time,  I learned 
from  my  master  how  to  become  a gourmand ; learned  what 
precious  knowledge,  and  how  much  practical  study,  were  nec- 
essary to  educate  a man  up  to  this  sublime  standard,  and 
entitle  him  to  the  proud  appellation  of  gourmand.  My  old 
master,  who  deservedly  bore  this  title,  inculcated  in  me  the 
most  beautiful  and  strict  principles.  In  the  midst  of  our 
conversation,  and  while  the  old  gentleman  was  digesting, 


THE  ALLIANCE. 


165 


slowly  imbibing  his  delicious  mocha,  and  blowing  clouds  of 
smoke  from  his  long  pipe,  it  sometimes  occurred  that  some 
one  of  the  burghers  of  the  little  city  would  come,  in  his 
necessity,  to  his  burgomaster  to  obtain  advice  or  assistance. 
Then  you  should  have  seen  his  anger  and  rage.  He  would 
strike  the  table  with  his  fist,  and  cry  furiously:  ‘Vat,  I give 
advice!  After  dinner,  and  for  noting!’  ” 

“ Ah,'’  exclaimed  Wilhelmine,  “ now  I begin  to  understand !” 

“That  is  fortunate,  indeed,”  said  Eietz,  laughing;  and  he 
held  out  his  empty  glass  to  Wilhelmine  that  she  might  fill  it. 
“Then  you  begin  to  understand  that  the  phrase  ‘after  dinner, 
and  for  nothing,’  is  very  beautiful  and  appropriate?” 

“ Yes,  and  I will  give  you  a proof  of  it  at  once ! Sir,  what 
lo  you  ask  for  your  good  advice?” 

“Bravo,  bravo!”  cried  Eietz.  “Well  sung,  my  prima 
donna!  Now  we  shall  understand  each  other;  and  with  your 
permission  we  will  proceed  to  talk  seriously.  Madame,  will 
you  form  an  offensive  and  defensive  alliance  with  me?  Do 
not  reply  yet!  I have  no  desire  whatever  that  you  should  buy 
the  cat  in  the  bag ; first  hear  what  I have  to  say,  and  then 
make  up  your  mind.  We  are  now  at  the  beginning  of  a new 
era ; and  to  most  men  the  future  is  as  a book  written  in  mys- 
terious and  illegible  characters.  But  I think  I can  decipher 
it,  and  I will  tell  you  what  it  contains.  I read  in  this  book 
that  Prussia  is  now  governed  by  a king  who  can  do  anything 
but  govern  himself,  and  who  is  like  soft  wax  in  the  hands  of 
those  who  know  how  to  manage  him.” 

“ How  dare  you  speak  so  disrespectfully  of  your  king?” 
cried  Wilhelmine. 

“Madame,”  said  Eietz,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  “give 
yourself  no  trouble ! To  his  valet  and  to  his  mistress — pardon 
me  for  this  word,  my  queen — the  greatest  king  is  but  an 
ordinary  man ; and  when  we  two  are  alone,  we  need  stand  on 
no  ceremony.  The  king,  I say,  will  be  ruled  over.  And  the 
only  question  is,  by  whom?  The  question  is,  shall  the  valet 
and  the  mistress  rule  over  the  happy  and  prosperous  kingdom 


166 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


of  Prussia,  or  shall  they  leave  this  difficult  but  remunerative 
business  to  the  Eosicrucians,  to  the  Invisible  Fathers,  and  to 
their  visible  sons,  Bischofswerder  and  Wöllner.” 

“If  they  do  that,”  cried  Wilhelmine,  with  vivacity,  “the 
mistress  and  the  valet  will  be  lost,  they  will  be  banished.” 

“That  is  also  my  opinion,”  said  Eietz.  “These  dear  Kosi- 
crucians  dread  our  influence.  They  know  that  we  are  both 
too  wise  to  believe  in  the  hocus  pocus,  and  that  it  sometimes 
affords  us  pleasure  to  enlighten  the  king’s  mind  on  the  sub- 
ject of  these  mysterious  fellows  and  their  jugglery.  I,  for 
my  part,  hate  these  pious  hypocrites,  these  wise  fools.  It  is 
as  impossible  for  me  to  live  together  with  them  in  friendship, 
as  it  is  for  the  honest  dog  and  sneaking  cat  to  sojourn  har- 
moniously in  one  kennel.  And  I account  it  one  of  my  great- 
est pleasures  when  I can  sometimes  give  them  a good  blow, 
and  tear  out  a piece  of  their  sheepskin,  in  order  to  show  the 
king  that  a wolf  is  disguised  in  sheep’s  clothing.” 

“I  feel  exactly  as  you  do  on  this  subject,”  cried  Wilhel- 
mine, laughing.  “ I find  it  impossible  to  accept  their  offers 
of  friendship.  They  have  frequently  attempted  to  make  me 
their  ally,  but  I wish  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  Invisible 
Fathers  of  the  inner  temple ; I prefer  the  visible  sons  in  the 
outer  halls,  for  we,  at  least,  know  what  they  are!” 

“You  are  a divine  woman,”  cried  the  chamberlain,  in  de- 
light. “ If  you  were  not  my  wife  I should  certainly  fall  in 
love  with  you.  It  is  fortunate,  however,  that  you  are  my 
wife,  for  lovers  are  blind,  and  it  behooves  us  both  to  keep  our 
eyes  open  to  avoid  being  caught  in  the  snares  which  will  be 
laid  for  us  in  great  plenty  by  our  pious  fowlers.  ‘They  or 
we;’  this  will  be  the  watchword  throughout  the  glorious  reign 
of  our  king.  The  Pharisees  and  Eosicrucians,  or — may  I 
pronounce  the  word,  my  enchantress?” 

“Yes,  my  friend,  pronounce  the  word!” 

“Well,  then!  The  watchword  is:  ‘The  Pharisees  and 
Eosicrucians,  or  the  libertines  and  mistresses!’  I cast  my  lot 
with  the  latter  party,  for  with  them  good  dinners  and  brill- 


THE  ALLIANCE. 


167 


iant  fetes  are  the  order  of  the  day.  With  them  pleasure 
reigns,  and  joy  is  queen.” 

“ I am  with  you,  my  friend.  Death  and  destruction  to  the 
Pharisees  and  Eosicrucians!” 

Long  live  the  libertines  and  mistresses ! They  shall  rule 
over  Prussia ! They  shall  guide  the  ship  of  state ; and  we, 
Wilhelmine  Enke,  we  two  will  be  the  leaders  and  masters  of 
this  merry  band!  We  will  fight  with  each  other  and  for  each 
other;  and  the  Pharisees  and  Eosicrucians  are,  and  shall  ever 
be,  our  common  enemies ! Give  me  your  hand  on  this,  my 
queen!” 

“ Here  is  my  hand.  Yes,  the  Pharisees  and  Eosicrucians 
are,  and  shall  ever  be,  our  common  enemies!” 

“You  will  aid  me,  and  I you!  We  will  protect  and  watch 
over  each  other.  Our  interests  are  identical,  what  furthers 
yours  furthers  mine.  You,  my  beautiful  Wilhelmine,  are 
ambitious,  and  are  not  contented  with  my  well-sounding 
name.  You  aim  higher,  and  I do  not  blame  you,  for  a crown 
would  become  you  well,  although  it  were  only  the  crown  of  a 
countess.” 

“That  would  suffice,”  said  Wilhelmine,  smiling.  “And 
you,  my  friend,  what  do  you  aspire  to?” 

“ I am  a very  modest  man,  and  decorations  and  titles  have 
no  charms  for  me.  I do  not  wish  ever  to  become  more  than 
I now  am ; but  that,  my  queen,  I would  like  to  remain.  I 
have  no  desire  to  be  dispossessed  of  my  situation ; on  the  con- 
trary, I desire  to  make  of  it  a right  warm  and  comfortable 
nest.” 

“And  I will  procure  you  the  necessary  down,”  cried 
Wilhelmine,  laughing. 

“ Very  well,  but  it  must  be  eider-down,  my  love,  for  that  is 
the  softest.  I love  the  exquisite  and  the  excellent;  I am  a 
gourmand  in  all  things.  If  there  is  one  thing  I could  wish 
for,  it  would  be  that  my  whole  life  might  consist  of  one  long 
dinner,  and  I remain  sitting  at  the  savory,  richly-laden  table, 
until  compelled  to  leave  it  for  the  grave.  I am  not  am- 


168 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


bitious,  nor  am  I miserly;  but  money  I must  have,  much 
money.  In  order  to  lead  a comfortable  and  agreeable  life  one 
must  have  money,  a great  deal  of  money,  an  immense  quan- 
tity of  money.  My  motto  is,  therefore,  ‘My  whole  life  one 
good  dinner,  and — after  dinner,  no  advice  for  nothing!’  ” 

“ I consider  this  a wise  motto,  and,  although  I cannot  make 
it  my  own,  I will  always  respect  it  as  yours,  and  act  in  accord- 
ance with  it  in  your  interest.'' 

“ That  will  be  very  agreeable,"  said  Eietz.  “ I will  then  be 
able  to  realize  my  ideal." 

“And  in  what  does  your  ideal  consist,  if  I may  ask  the 
question?" 

“ My  ideal  is  a house  of  my  own,  elegantly  and  luxuriously 
furnished,  attentive  and  deferential  servants,  an  exquisite 
cook,  and  the  most  choice  dinners,  with  four  covers  always 
ready  for  agreeable,  gay,  and  influential  guests,  who  must  be 
selected  each  day.  Do  you  know,  my  queen,  what  is  essential 
to  the  realization  of  my  ideal?  In  the  flrst  place,  the  king 
must  give  me  a house  just  large  enough  to  make  me  a com- 
fortable dwelling.  I know  of  such  a house.  It  stands  at  the 
entrance  of  the  park  of  Sans-Souci.  It  has  only  flve  cham- 
bers, a parlor,  a cellar,  a kitchen,  and  several  servants’  rooms. 
That  is  just  the  house  for  a modest  man  like  myself;  and  I 
wish  to  have  it.  And  then  rich  clients  are  required,  petition- 
ers for  decorations  and  titles,  who  come  to  me  for  counsel, 
supposing  the  king’s  confldential  chamberlain  can  gratify 
their  longings,  if  they  only  cajole  him  and  show  him  some 
attentions.  For  instance,  if  this  nice  new  house  were  mine* 
I would  furnish  one  room  only,  and  that  sparingly,  letting  all 
the  others  stand  empty.  I would  then  show  my  visitors  my 
dear  little  house,  and  it  would  be  strange,  indeed,  if  it  were 
not  soon  handsomely  furnished.  To  accomplish  this,  nothing 
is  wanted  but  your  assistance,  my  gracious  wife  and  queen." 

“ And  in  what  manner  shall  I assist  you,  my  dear  philos. 
opher?" 

“ In  this  manner,  my  adored : by  sending  the  suitors  who 


THE  ALLIANCE. 


169 


come  to  yon,  to  me — that  is,  those  suitors  who  desire  deco- 
rations, titles,  or  a noble  coat-of-arms ; for  with  politics  I will 
have  nothing  to  do.  I only  speculate  on  the  foolishness  of 
mankind.  Therefore,  let  it  be  well  understood,  you  are  to 
send  the  foolish  to  me  with  their  petitions — to  tell  them  that 
decorations  and  titles  are  my  specialty,  and  that  I alone  can 
effect  anything  with  the  king  in  such  matters.  In  doing  this^ 
you  not  only  send  me  clients  who  furnish  my  house,  hut  you 
also  enhance  my  respectability.  You  make  an  important  per- 
son of  me,  to  whom  great  deference  must  he  shown,  and  who 
must  be  courted  and  flattered.  The  natural  consequence  will 
be,  that  I will  have  humble  and  devoted  servants,  and  be  able 
to  secure  agreeable  and  influential  guests  for  my  dinners.  For 
I need  scarcely  inform  you,  that  it  would  afford  me  no  enter- 
tainment whatever  simply  to  All  empty  stomachs  at  my  table. 
On  the  contrary,  I desire  to  have  guests  to  whom  eating  is  a 
science,  and  who  do  not  regard  a good  pasty  merely  as  an 
article  of  food,  but  rather  as  a superior  enjoyment.  Will 
you  help  me  to  attain  all  this?” 

“ Yes,  I will,  my  friend.  But  now  tell  me  what  services 
you  propose  to  render  in  return!” 

I will  be  your  obedient  servant,  your  sincere  and  discreet 
friend,  and  your  ally  in  life  and  death.  When  diplomatists 
and  politicians  apply  to  me  for  my  good  offices,  I will  refer 
them  to  you.  I will  always  have  your  interests  at  heart.  If 
Bischof swerder  and  Wöllner  should  ever  succeed  in  poisoning 
the  king’s  mind  against  you,  or  in  depriving  you  of  his  favor, 
I will  lend  a helping  hand  in  thrusting  these  pious  lights  into 
the  shade,  where  they  belong.  You  can  depend  on  me  in  all 
things.  I will  represent  your  interests,  as  if  they  were  my 
own,  and  as  if  I had  the  honor  to  be  in  reality  what  I,  unfor- 
tunately, only  appear  to  be,  the  husband  of  the  beautiful  and 
amiable  Wilhelmine  Eietz.  But  truly,  the  name  sounds  bad, 
and  I will  assist  you  in  exchanging  it  for  a longer  and  more 
harmonious  one.  The  name  Eietz  is  just  long  and  good 
enough  for  me.  It  fits  me  snugly,  like  a comfortable,  well- 


170 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


worn  dressing-gown;  and  I prefer  it  to  a court-dress.  But 
for  you,  my  fair  one,  we  must  certainly  procure  the  title  of  a 
baroness  or  countess.  Moreover,  as  your  disinterestedness  and 
improvidence  in  money  matters  is  well  known  to  me,  I will 
also  consider  it  my  sacred  duty  to  look  after  your  interests  in 
this  particular,  and  call  the  king’s  attention  to  your  neces- 
sities from  time  to  time.  For  instance,  you  might  require  a 
handsome  palace  in  Berlin,  or  a larger  villa  here  in  Char- 
lottenburg,  or  a magnificent  set  of  jewelry,  or  an  increase  of 
income.’* 

“Ah,  my  friend,  I will  be  very  thankful  for  all  this,”  said 
Wilhelmine,  with  a bewitching  smile.  “ But  what  is  of  para- 
mount importance  is,  that  the  king  should  continue  to  love 
me,  or  at  least  that  he  should  never  reject  my  love  or  discard 
me.  I love  him.  He  is  the  father  of  my  children ; he  was 
the  lover  of  my  youth;  and  I can  swear  that  I have  never 
loved  another  besides  him.  Even  my  worst  enemies  cannot 
say  of  me  that  I was  ever  untrue  to  the  love  of  my  youth,  or 
that  I ever  had  any  liaison,  except  the  one  with  the  pool 
prince  royal,  for  whom  I suffered  want,  rather  than  listen  to, 
the  addresses  of  rich  and  infiuential  admirers.” 

“ That  is  true,”  said  Eietz,  with  an  air  of  perfect  gravity; 
“ they  can  make  you  no  reproaches.  Your  life  htis  been 
altogether  irreproachable ; and  the  chronique  scandaleuse  has* 
had  nothing  to  report  concerning  you.” 

“ You  are  mocking  me,”  sighed  Wilhelmine.  “ Your  words 
are  well  understood.  You  wish  to  say  that  my  whole  life  has 
been  one  impropriety,  and  that  I am  the  legitimate  prey  of 
the  chronique  scandaleuse.  Oh,  do  not  deny  it,  you  are 
perfectly  right.  I am  an  outcast  from  society;  and  yet  it 
cannot  be  said  of  me,  that  I,  like  so  many  highly-respectable 
ladies,  have  sold  my  heart  and  hand  for  an  advantageous 
marriage  settlement.  I only  followed  the  dictates  of  my  heart 
and  my  love ; and  the  world  punishes  me  by  erecting  a barrier 
between  me  and  good  society.  But  I have  no  intention 
of  submitting  to  this  any  longer.  Why  should  the 


THE  ALLIANCE. 


171 


king’s  beloved  stand  without  the  barrier,  while  many 
a countess,  who  has  sold  herself,  and  married  an  unloved 
man  for  his  title  and  his  wealth,  and  to  whom  faith  is  but  an 
empty  fancy,  stands  within  on  consecrated  ground.  This 
barrier  shall  crumble  before  me,  and  I will  be  received  within 
the  circle  of  this  so-called  good  and  exclusive  society.  To 
their  hatred  and  contempt,  I am  quite  indifferent,  but  they 
shall  at  least  seem  to  esteem  and  respect  me.  They  shall  not 
leave  me  in  perfect  solitude  in  the  midst  of  the  world,  as  if  I 
lived  on  a desert  island,  like  Kobinson  Crusoe,  and  had  great 
reason  to  be  thankful  when  the  king  sometimes  took  the  role 
of  Friday  and  kept  me  company.  I will  be  received  in  so- 
ciety; I will  be  the  head  of  society;  I will  have  parlors, 
where  not  only  artists  and  men  of  intellect  assemble,  but  to 
which  the  ladies  of  the  best  society  must  also  come.  This  is 
my  ambition ; this  is  my  dream  of  happiness.  I will  have  a 
social  position  in  defiance  of  all  these  so-called  exclusive  cir- 
cles. Whenever  I meet  these  people,  and  see  them  turn  aside 
to  avoid  me  with  a contemptuous  smile,  I say  to  myself: 
‘Only  wait,  ye  proud,  ye  virtuous!  you  shall  yet  fill  Wilhel- 
mine  Eietz’s  parlors,  and  form  the  background  of  the  brill- 
iant picture  of  her  power  and  magnificence.  Only  wait,  ye 
noble  gentlemen,  you  shall  yet  dance  attendance  in  Wilhel- 
mine  Eietz’s  antechamber!  Only  wait,  ye  heroines  of  virtue, 
you  shall  one  day  walk  arm  in  arm  with  Wilhelm ine  Eietz, 
and  accord  her  the  place  of  honor  on  your  right  hand!’  You 
see  I have  consoled  myself  with  these  thoughts  of  the  future 
for  many  years.  But  the  future  has  now  become  the  present, 
and  the  longed-for  time  has  at  last  arrived  when  Wilhelmine 
Eietz  will  compel  society  to  unbolt  its  portals  and  permit  her 
to  enter.  Will  you  assist  me  in  this  matter?” 

“I  shall  be  delighted  to  do  so,”  said  Eietz,  laughing.  “I 
will  be  the  locksmith,  who  furnishes  the  keys  to  open  these 
doors  with,  and  if  keys  will  not  suffice,  he  will  provide  pick- 
locks  and  crowbars.  But,  enter  you  shall.  It  will  be  a diflB- 
cult  undertaking,  to  be  sure,  but  it  will  amuse  me  all  the 
12 


172 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


more,  on  that  account,  to  assist  yon,  and  help  to  pull  down 
the  pride  of  these  arrogant  people.  Ah,  I hate  these  people, 
and  it  will  afford  me  immense  satisfaction  to  see  them  com- 
pelled to  humble  themselves  before  you,  and  fawn  and  flatter 
in  spite  of  their  reluctance!  Yes,  I will  help  you  to  ascend 
this  mountain,  but  I do  not  desire  to  rise  with  you,  I prefer 
to  remain  below  in  the  valley,  and  earn  an  honest  livelihood, 
as  the  good  old  proverb  says.” 

“ And  will  become  a rich  man  in  the  valley,  while  I will, 
perhaps,  be  struggling  with  debts  and  creditors  on  the  heights 
above!” 

'‘Yes,”  said  Eietz,  “there  will  certainly  be  struggles,  and 
struggles  of  every  variety.  As  for  your  debts,  I will  under- 
take to  have  them  all  paid ; and  in  the  future  your  income 
will  be  so  considerably  increased  that  you  will  no  longer  be 
under  the  necessity  of  making  debts.  But  what  I cannot 
take  upon  myself,  unaided,  is  the  struggle  with  your  beauti- 
ful and  high-born  rival.  That  is  woman’s  work;  there,  flsts 
are  of  no  avail,  and  delicate  fingers  can  manipulate  needles 
with  far  greater  efficiency.” 

“ You  speak  of  my  rival,  the  beautiful  Julie  von  Voss.” 

“ Yes,  my  adorable,  I speak  of  her,  and  I will  now  prove 
to  you  that  I am  your  friend.  And  I will  tell  what  I have  no 
right  to  tell.  The  privy-chamberlain  breaks  the  inviolable 
seal  of  office.  But  what  can  I do?  are  you  not  my  wife? 
And  in  the  end,  the  most  discreet  man  in  the  world  can  keep 
no  secret  from  his  wife!  Now,  listen!”  And  in  a low,  sup- 
pressed voice,  as  if  fearing  the  walls  might  hear,  he  told  her 
of  his  mission  to  Schönhausen,  of  the  king’s  messages,  and  of 
his  conversation  with  the  beautiful  maid  of  honor. 

Wilhelmine  listened  with  pallid  cheeks  and  quivering  lips, 
only  interrupting  him  from  time  to  time  with  a brief  ques- 
tion, or  an  angry  or  threatening  cry. 


THE  CONDITIONS. 


173 


OHAPTEE  VII. 

THE  CONDITIONS. 

While  this  was  occurring  in  the  dining-room,  Jean  sat  in 
the  antechamber,  holding  himself  in  readiness  to  answer  his 
mistress’s  bell,  if  it  should  ring.  But  no  bell  rang,  and  all 
was  so  still,  the  air  so  wai’m  and  sultry  in  the  little  chamber, 
and  the  soft  twilight  had  so  tranquillizing  an  effect,  that  Jean 
could  no  longer  resist  the  temptation  to  close  his  eyes,  and 
indulge  in  his  dreams  of  the  future.  And  perhaps  he  was 
dreaming,  when  a tall  figure,  completely  enveloped  in  a black 
mantle,  stood  before  him,  laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and 
pronounced  his  name  in  a low  voice.  Perhaps  it  was  only  a 
dream  when  he  saw  this,  and  heard  the  veiled  figure  utter 
these  words  in  a low  voice : 

“ You  belong  to  the  third  circle  of  the  Invisible  lodge?” 

And  he  replied — whether  in  a dream  or  in  reality,  he  was 
himself  not  perfectly  satisfied — Yes,  I belong  to  that  circle.” 

Furthermore,  the  veiled  figure  said:  “ You  were  sent  here 
with  orders  to  make  an  exact  report  of  all  that  occurs,  to  the 
circle  director,  and  to  submit  to  his  will,  in  all  things.  Do 
you  bear  this  in  mind?” 

“ I am  the  obedient  servant  of  the  Invisible,”  replied  Jean, 
respectfully.  “ I will  never  forget  my  oath;  if  I did,  punish- 
ment would  overtake,  and  the  just  anger  of  the  Invisible  de- 
stroy me.” 

“Did  the  circle-director  show  you  the  symbol  of  the 
brotherhood?” 

“Yes,  he  did.” 

“ Behold  the  symbol,”  said  the  veiled  figure,  and  for  a mo* 
ment  a little  triangular  plate  of  metal  shone  in  his  open 
hand. 

“I  see  it,”  replied  Jean,  rising,  “and  I know  by  this  tri- 
angle that  a brother  of  the  higher  degrees  stands  before  me; 


174 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


I therefore  salute  you  with  reverence,  brother  superior.’*  lie 
bowed  profoundly,  but  the  veiled  figure  merely  nodded  in 
return. 

“ Do  you  know  the  sign  by  which  the  master  of  the  order, 
the  grand  kophta  is  recognized?”  said  he,  in  low  and  piercing 
tones. 

“I  do,”  replied  Jean,  his  voice  almost  inaudible,  from  in 
ward  agitation. 

The  veiled  figure  thrust  forth  his  hand  from  under  the 
concealing  mantle,  and  a large  solitaire  sparkled  on  his  fin- 
ger. “ See,  this  is  the  sign,”  said  he. 

Jean  uttered  a cry  of  astonishment,  and  sank  on  his  knees. 
‘‘Command  me,  almighty  one,”  he  murmured,  “your  slave 
has  no  will  but  yours.” 

“Arise,  and  be  my  guide,”  commanded  the  veiled  figure, 
and  Jean  stood  up  immediately. 

“ Where  shall  I lead,  my  exalted  master?” 

“ Conduct  me  to  the  little  room  adjoining  the  laboratory  of 
the  present  king,  but  by  such  a way  that  no  human  eye  shall 
see,  and  no  human  ear  hear  me.” 

“Then,  I must  first  beg  permission,”  said  Jean,  hurrying 
towards  the  door,  “ to  assure  myself  that  no  one  is  in  the  hall.” 

But  the  veiled  figure  followed,  and  held  him  back.  “ Why 
go  that  way?”  he  asked.  “Why  through  the  hall,  when  we 
can  go  through  the  door  in  the  wall  into  the  little  passage 
that  leads  to  the  secret  staircase?” 

“That  is  true;  I had  forgotten  that,”  said  Jean,  trem- 
bling, and  looking  with  surprise  and  terror  at  his  superior, 
who  was  so  well  acquainted  with  this  strange  house  that  he 
knew  the  secret  doors  and  staircases. 

“As  my  master  pleases;  here  is  the  door.”  He  pressed  a 
small,  almost  imperceptible  knob  in  the  wall,  and  a little  door 
sprang  open. 

“Go  before,  and  lead  me,”  said  the  veiled  figure,  pushing 
Jean  through  the  entrance.  “ We  must  walk  softly,  and  with- 
out uttering  a word ; the  passage  runs  by  the  dining-room, 


THE  CONDITIONS, 


175 


where  your  mistress  is  conversing  with  the  king’s  privy- 
chamberlain,  and  we  might  be  heard.  I will,  therefore,  give 
you  my  command  here.  You  will  lead  me  through  the  pas- 
sage and  down  the  staircase.  With  the  key  which  you  carry, 
you  will  then  open  the  door  and  let  me  into  the  laboratory« 
You  will  then  lock  the  door  again,  take  the  key  from  the  lock« 
and  hurry  back  to  the  antechamber.  You  will  observe  the 
most  profound  silence  in  regard  to  what  has  occurred ; and,  if 
life  and  your  eternal  welfare  are  dear  to  you,  you  will  betray 
having  seen  me  by  neither  word,  look,  nor  gesture.” 

“Exalted  master,”  whispered  Jean,  “I  am  nothing  more 
than  your  slave  and  creature,  and  I know  that  my  life  is  but 
dust  in  your  hands.  I fear  the  Invisible,  and  I adore  you  in 
your  sublimity.  Graciously  permit  me  to  embrace  your  feet, 
that  the  touch  may  impart  to  me  eternal  health  and  strength.” 

And  he  knelt  down  and  kissed  the  feet  of  the  veiled  figure 
with  impassioned  tenderness. 

The  veiled  figure  bowed  down  to  him  and  said : “ Grace 
will  be  shed  upon  you ; you  are  a good  and  obedient  servant. 
At  the  next  assembly  you  will  learn  that  you  have  been 
elevated  a degree,  and  have  come  a step  nearer  to  the  inner 
halls  of  the  temple.  Be  silent,  no  word  of  thanks,  but  arise 
aud  conduct  me!” 

Jean  arose  and  stepped  forward,  the  veiled  figure  following 
him,  and  conducted  him,  as  he  had  been  directed,  to  the 
laboratory;  he  let  him  in,  closed  and  locked  the  door  again, 
and  returned  hastily  to  the  antechamber. 

Had  this  all  really  happened,  or  had  Jean  only  been  dream- 
ing? He  asked  himself  this  question,  and  looked  inquiringly 
and  anxiously  around  in  the  little  chamber.  He  was  entirely 
alone;  the  secret  door  was  closed.  No  one  was  with  him,  all 
was  still  around  him,  and  profound  silence  seemed  to  reign  in 
the  dining-room  also.  Jean  stepped  softly  to  the  door  and 
listened.  He  could  now  hear  a subdued  murmur,  and  could 
even  distinguish  the  voices  of  his  mistress  and  the  privy- 
chamberlain.  They  seemed  to  be  conversing  eagerly;  but 


176 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


they  spoke  in  such  low  tones  that  it  was  impossible  for  Jean 
to  understand  a single  word. 

And  they  were  really  engaged  in  a very  earnest  conver- 
sation; in  a conversation  which  absorbed  Wilhelmine’s  atten- 
tion wholly.  Eietz  had  not  only  related  his  interview  with 
the  maid  of  honor,  but  had  also  given  her  a faithful  account 
of  the  king’s  visit  to  Schönhausen,  and  of  the  conversation 
between  Charles  von  Voss  and  his  sister,  in  which  he  per- 
suaded her  to  receive  the  king. 

“ How  do  you  know  this?”  asked  Wilhelmine,  with  a shrug 
of  her  shoulders.  “ I imagine  it  could  have  needed  no  per- 
suasion, that  this  young  lady  would  have  done  so  willingly 
enough.” 

There  you  are  in  error,  my  beautiful  countess ; I know 
better,  because  I listened  to  the  whole  conversation  between 
the  maid  of  honor  and  her  brother.” 

^‘How?  You  were  present?” 

“ Not  exactly  present,  but  I heard  it,  nevertheless.  The 
doors  of  the  dilapidated  old  castle  in  Schönhausen  are  full  of 
cracks  and  crannies,  and  if  you  get  near  enough  you  can  see 
and  hear  very  readily.” 

“And  you  were  near  the  door  of  the  maid  of  honor’s 
chamber?” 

“So  near  that  a sheet  of  paper  could  hardly  have  been 
slipped  in  between  us.” 

“ And  there  was  no  one  there  to  order  the  bold  eavesdropper 
to  leave?” 

“Yes,  there  was  a human  being  in  the  little  dressing-room 
in  which  I stood,  but  this  human  being  made  no  opposition 
whatever  to  my  listening  at  the  door,  for  the  simple  reason 
that  I had  paid  well  for  the  privilege.  The  young  lady’s 
chambermaid  loves  money,  and  is  of  a speculative  disposition. 
She  wishes  to  open  a millinery  establishment,  and  for  that 
money  is  necessary ; and  she  takes  it  whenever  she  can  get  it. 
I pay  her  in  my  gracious  master’s  name  for  singing  the  king’s 
praise  in  her  mistress’s  ear ; and  I pay  her  in  my  own  name 


THE  CONDITIONS. 


177 


for  reporting  to  me  the  result  of  this  singing,  and  permitting 
me  to  listen  at  the  door  when  there  is  anything  to  be  heard. 
To  be  sure,  it  cost  me  a considerable  sum  yesterday.  Thi& 
shrewd  little  kitten  made  me  pay  her  twice:  once  for  the 
conversation  between  the  maid  of  honor  and  her  brother,  and 
the  second  time  for  the  conversation  between  the  king  and 
the  maid  of  honor.’' 

Wilhelmine  sprang  up,  and  an  exclamation  of  astonishment 
escaped  her  lips.  You  have  listened  to  the  conversation  be- 
tween the  king  and  the  maid  of  honor,  and  now  tell  me  of  it 
for  the  first  time.  I conjure  you,  Eietz,  my  dear  Eietz,  my 
best  friend,  tell  me  of  it.  Speak — what  did  the  king  say,  and 
what  did  she  reply?” 

After  dinner,  and  for  nothing?”  asked  Eietz,  as  he 
stretched  himself  comfortably,  poured  the  last  few  drops  of 
champagne  into  his  glass  and  carried  it  slowly  to  his  lips. 

Speak,  my  dear  Eietz.  Say  what  I shall  do.  What  will 
you  have?” 

The  little  love  of  a house  at  the  entrance  of  the  park  of 
Sans-Souci.  It  was  built  on  speculation ; that  is  to  say,  I had 
it  built,  hoping  that  the  old  king  would  be  dead,  and  our 
Frederick  William  seated  on  the  throne  by  the  time  of  its  com- 
pletion. My  hope  is  now  realized,  and  I ask  you,  my  adorable 
wife,  will  you  use  your  infiuence  to  persuade  the  king  to  give 
me  this  house  as  a reward  for  my  long  and  faithful  services?” 

I will  do  so ; I will  storm  the  king  with  entreaties  to  give 
you  this  house.” 

Then  it  is  as  good  as  mine  already,  and  I thank  my  noble 
patroness.  And  now  that  I am  paid  in  advance,  I will  im- 
part  to  you  the  substance  of  that  important  conversation — 
that  is,  you  will  certainly  not  require  me  to  repeat  the  king’s 
protestations  of  love  and  vows  of  eternal  fidelity.” 

“No,  I do  not  require  that  of  you,”  sighed  Wilhelmine^ 
with  trembling  lips;  “that  I can  readily  imagine.  It  can 
only  have  been  a repetition  of  what  he  told  me.  Out  upon 
men!  They  are  a perfidious  and  faithless  race!” 


178 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


‘^Yes,  they  imbibe  these  qualities  with  their  mother’s 
milk;  and  King  Frederick  William  also  is  only  the  son  of  his 
mother.  Therefore,  nothing  of  the  king’s  protestations  of 
love,  and  the  noble  indignation  and  conflict  between  love  and 
virtue  on  the  part  of  the  young  lady.  To  the  king’s  intense 
gratiflcation  the  young  lady  finally  admitted,  with  many  tears 
and  sighs,  that  she  would  love  him  if  he  were  not,  unfor- 
tunately, already  married,  and  if  Madame  Eietz  were  not  in 
existence.  If  the  king  were  no  better  than  a poor  nobleman, 
the  young  lady  would  esteem  it  perfect  bliss  to  become  his. 
She  would  joyfully  undergo  hardships  and  suffer  want  at  his 
side ; but  she  was  not  willing  to  occupy  a position  that  would 
expose  her  to  scorn  and  contempt.  She  could  not  cause  the 
noble  queen  additional  sorrow  and  pain ; and  finally,  it  would 
be  quite  impossible  to  tolerate  a despised  and  hated  rival  like 
Wilhelmine  Kietz  at  her  side.  But — good  heavens!  what  is 
the  matter  with  you?  You  turn  pale,  and  wail  and  moan 
fearfully!  Poor  woman,  if  you  are  so  sensitive,  I must  of 
course  be  silent.” 

‘‘It  is  nothing — nothing  at  all,”  murmured  Wilhelmine. 
“ It  was  only  a momentary  pang,  and  it  is  now  past.  Speak 
on,  I am  quite  composed.  Speak ! What  did  the  king  reply?” 

“ He  begged  her  to  name  the  conditions  on  which  she  could 
consent  to  be  his;  and  the  beautiful  and  wise  maid  of  honor 
stated  her  conditions,  assuring  him  that  they  were  irrevo- 
cable— her  ultimatum,  as  the  diplomatists  say.  And  truly 
these  conditions  were  ridiculous.  I almost  burst  out  laughing 
when  I heard  them.” 

“And  what  were  they?  I pray  you  tell  me,”  murmured 
Wilhelmine,  clasping  her  hands  tightly  together  to  keep  them 
from  trembling. 

“ There  were  three  conditions,  and  the  maid  of  honor  swore 
by  the  memory  of  her  mother,  who  had  died  of  grief  caused 
by  her  love  for  the  king’s  father,  Prince  August  William, 
that  she  would  neither  see  liis  majesty  nor  speak  with  him 
until  he  had  promised  to  fulfill  her  conditions;  and,  that  if 


THE  CONDITIONS. 


179 


he  could  or  would  not  fulfil  them,  the  young  lady  would  leave 
the  court  forever,  and  retire  into  the  deepest  seclusion.” 

^^She  is  cunning;  oh,  she  is  very  cunning,”  murmured 
Wilhelmine,  clasping  her  hands  yet  more  firmly  together« 
And  her  three  conditions?” 

“ Are  as  follows : firstly,  the  young  lady  exacts  of  the  king 
that  she  be  married  formally  and  rightfully  to  bis  left  hand, 
by  a Protestant  minister ; secondly,  she  demands  that,  above 
all  things,  the  consent  of  the  queen,  the  wife  of  the  right 
hand,  be  first  obtained ; and  thirdly,  and  finally,  she  demands 
that  Wilhelmine  Kietz,  together  with  her  two  children,  be  ban- 
ished, and  that  an  estate  be  given  her  in  Lithuania,  and  she 
be  compelled  to  remain  there  and  never  return  to  Berlin  or 
Potsdam.” 

“And  the  king?”  cried  Wilhelmine,  in  piercing  accents. 

“ The  king  stipulated  for  four  weeks’  time  in  which  to  con- 
sider the  matter,  kissed  the  proud  lady’s  hand,  and  retired. 
Now,  my  queen,  you  know  all,  and  it  is  also  time  for  me  to 
retire.  I must  ride  to  Potsdam  at  the  king’s  command,  and 
confer  with  the  queen  as  to  the  conditions  on  which  she 
would  give  her  consent  to  this  absurd  marriage.  But  I can- 
not comprehend  you,  my  beauty!  You  look  as  mournful  as 
if  you  were  on  the  point  of  starting  for  Lithuania  already, 
and  as  if  it  were  another  than  you  who  sways  the  king’s  heart 
and  soul.  I,  for  my  part,  place  implicit  confidence  in  your 
power,  and  am  satisfied  that  the  king  will  never  give  you  up 
or  desert  you.  Would  I otherwise  have  courted  your  alli- 
ance? Would  I have  based  my  hopes  of  obtaining  the  little 
house  at  Sans-Souci  on  your  intercession?  No,  my  beauty; 
you  are,  and  will  remain,  queen,  in  spite  of  all  the  wives  of 
the  right  and  the  left  hand.  Only  you  must  not  be  discour- 
aged, and  must  not  look  so  sad.  For  you  well  know  that  our 
good  master  cannot  abide  mournful  faces,  and  invariably 
runs  away  from  weeping  women.” 

“It  is  true;  you  are  right.”  said  Wilhelmine.  “I  will 
wreathe  my  face  in  smiles.  I will  laugh.” 


180 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


And  she  burst  out  into  a loud  and  vibrating  peal  of  laugh- 
ter, in  which  Eietz  heartily  joined. 

“ That  is  right,”  he  cried ; “ now  I admire  you ! You  look 
like  a lioness  defending  her  young.  That  is  right,  my  beauty ! 
‘He  who  trusts  in  God,  and  strikes  out  boldly  around  him, 
will  never  come  to  grief,’  my  good  old  burgomaster  Herr 
Funk  used  to  say.  Strike  boldly,  my  queen,  deal  out  heavy 
blows,  and  we  shall  never  come  to  grief,  and  all  will  yet  be 
well.  And  now,  my  charming  wife,  I must  take  leave  of  you, 
as  I hear  a carriage  driving  up  that  I wager  brings  no  other 
than  his  majesty.  It  is  not  necessary  that  he  should  still  find 
me  here.  I will,  therefore,  slip  out  of  the  back  door  and 
beat  a retreat  through  the  garden.  Addio,  carissima,  addio!” 

He  bowed  respectfully,  threw  her  a kiss  with  the  tips  of  his 
fingers,  opened  a window,  and  sprang  out  upon  the  terrace, 
from  which  a small  stairway  led  down  into  the  garden. 

Wilhelmine  frowned,  and  cast  an  angry  look  in  the  direc- 
tion he  had  taken.  “ How  degraded  a soul ! how  base  a char- 
acter!” she  murmured;  ^^but  yet  I must  cling  to  him,  and  be 
very  friendly  with  him.  He  is  my  only  support,  my  only 
friend ; for  without  him  I would  be  lost  1 And  I will  not  be 
lost ! I will  maintain  my  position ; while  I live,  I will  bravely 
battle  for  it!” 

“The  king!”  cried  Jean,  throwing  the  door  open.  “His 
majesty  has  arrived,  and  awaits  my  lady  in  her  parlor.” 

“I  am  coming,”  said  Wilhelmine,  calmly.  “Hurry  down 
into  the  park,  and  tell  my  son  and  daughter  that  their  father 
is  here.  They  are  down  on  the  river;  they  must  come  at  once 
to  greet  his  majesty.” 


CHAPTER  VIII 

NEW  LOVE. 

The  king  advanced  to  meet  Wilhelmine  with  a gentle 
smile;  and  when,  after  a formal  obeisance,  she  congratulated 
him  in  cold  and  ceremonious  terms,  Frederick  William  burst 


NEW  LOVE. 


181 


out  into  laughter,  caught  her  in  his  arms,  and  pressed  a kiss 
on  her  brow. 

Wilhelmine  trembled,  and  tears  rushed  to  her  eyes.  She 
felt  like  clasping  him  in  her  arms  and  conjuring  him,  with 
tender  reproaches  and  passionate  words  of  love,  not  to  aban- 
don her,  and  not  to  drive  herself  and  his  children  out  into 
the  cold  world.  But  she  repressed  her  emotion — she  knew 
the  king  could  not  endure  sad  faces,  and  always  fled  from  a 
woman  in  tears. 

She  had  the  courage  to  smile,  and  seem  to  be  gay ; and  her 
countenance  bore  no  trace  of  disquiet  or  anxiety.  She  con- 
versed with  perfect  composure  and  indifference,  as  if  no 
change  had  taken  or  ever  could  take  place  in  their  relations 
to  each  other. 

Frederick  William’s  joyousness  had  at  flrst  been  assumed, 
to  hide  his  embarrassment;  and  he  felt  greatly  relieved  by 
Wilhelmine ’s  manner.  He  abandoned  himself  wholly  to  the 
charming  society  of  the  beautiful  and  agreeable  friend,  who 
had  always  so  well  understood  how  to  enliven  him  and  banish 
all  care  from  his  breast.  And  when  the  two  children  entered 
the  parlor,  and  his  favorite  Alexander,  a boy  of  ten  years  of 
age,  ran  forward,  looked  wonderingly  at  his  papa  king,  and 
then  threw  his  arms  tenderly  around  his  neck,  and  kissed  and 
hugged  him,  regardless  of  his  royalty;  when  the  lovely 
daughter,  in  the  bloom  of  sixteen  summers,  the  charming 
image  of  her  young  mother,  walked  forward,  and  seated  her- 
self on  one  of  his  knees  opposite  her  brother,  who  sat  on  the 
other;  and  when  the  still  beautiful  mother  stepped  up  to 
this  group,  her  eyes  beaming  and  her  face  wreathed  in  smiles, 
and  clasped  father  and  children  in  one  embrace,  a feeling  of 
inflnite  comfort  fllled  Frederick  William’s  breast,  and  tears 
rushed  to  his  eyes. 

He  gently  pushed  the  two  children  from  his  knees,  and 
arose  Go  down  into  the  garden,  my  pets,  and  wait  for  me 
in  the  rose-pavilion,  when  we  will  watch  the  sun  set.  But 
nov;  go,  as  I have  something  to  say  to  your  mother.'' 


182 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


“ But  nothing  unpleasant,  I hope,  papa?’'  said  Alexander, 
anxiously.  “You  have  nothing  to  say  to  my  mamma  that 
will  make  her  sad?” 

“And  if  I had,”  asked  Frederick  William,  smiling,  “what 
would  you  do  to  prevent  it?” 

“ If  you  had,”  replied  the  boy,  with  a bold  and  defiant  ex- 
pression, “ I know  very  well  what  I would  do.  I would  not 
go  away.  I would  remain  here,  even  if  my  papa  ordered  me 
to  go.  But  for  this  once  I could  not  be  obedient,  although  I 
should  be  scolded  for  it.” 

“ And  what  effect  would  your  remaining  here  have,  Alex- 
ander?” asked  the  king. 

“It  would  have  this  effect,  your  majesty,”  replied  the  boy, 
gravely.  “ My  dear  mamma  would  then  hear  nothing  that 
would  make  her  feel  sad,  or  perhaps  even  make  her  cry.” 

“ But  if  I should  tell  her  something  in  your  presence  that 
would  make  her  feel  sad?” 

“That  you  will  not  do,  papa!”  cried  Alexander,  erecting 
himself  proudly.  “No,  while  I am  here  you  will  certainly 
not  make  my  mamma  sad ; for  you  know  that  I would  cry 
too,  if  my  mamma  cried,  and  you  certainly  could  not  bear  to 
see  your  poor  little  son  and  his  mamma  weeping  bitterly.” 

“You  love  your  mamma  very  much,  I suppose?” 

“Yos,”  exclaimed  the  boy,  throwing  his  arms  around  his 
mother’s  neck,  and  laying  his  curly  head  on  her  bosom ; “ yes, 
I love  my  mamma  very  dearly ; and  my  heart  almost  breaks 
when  I see  her  cry.  And  she  cries  very  often  now,  and — ” 

“Go,  Alexander,”  said  his  mother,  interrupting  him. 
“ You  see  your  sister  is  an  obedient  daughter,  and  has  already 
obeyed  her  father’s  command.  Follow  her  now,  my  son; 
learn  from  your  sister  to  obey  your  father  without  murmur- 
ing.” 

“Yes,  my  son,  follow  your  sister,”  said  the  king,  gently. 
“ Fear  nothing,  my  boy,  I have  no  intention  of  making  your 
mother  feel  sad.” 

“Then  I will  go,  papa,”  cried  Alexander,  as  he  pressed  his 


NEW  LOVE. 


183 


father’s  hand  tenderly  to  his  lips.  He  then  skipped  joyfully 
oat  of  the  room. 

The  king  followed  the  handsome  hoy,  with  an  affectionate 
look,  until  the  door  closed  behind  him.  He  then  turned  to 
Wilhelmine,  who  met  his  gaze  with  a gentle  smile.  ‘^Wil- 
helmine,  I have  entered  on  a new  life  to-day.  The  poor 
prince  royal,  who  was  harassed  with  debt,  has  become  a rich 
and  mighty  king.  A young  king’s  first  and  most  sacred  duty 
is  to  prove  his  gratitude  to  those  who  were  his  loving  and 
faithful  friends,  while  he  was  yet  prince  royal.  And  there- 
fore, Wilhelmine,  you  were  my  first  thought;  therefore  am  I 
come  to  you  to  prove  that  I have  a grateful  heart,  and  can 
never  forget  the  past.  You  have  undergone  hardships,  and 
suffered  want  for  me;  the  hour  of  reward  has  now  come. 
Impart  to  me  all  your  wishes  freely,  and  without  reservation, 
and  I swear  to  you  that  they  shall  be  fulfilled.  Will  you 
have  a name,  a proud  title?  will  you  have  jewelry  or  treas- 
ures? will  you  have  a magnificent  landed  estate?  Speak  out, 
tell  me  what  you  desire,  for  I have  come  to  reward  you,  and 
I am  king.'* 

She  looked  at  him  proudly,  with  sparkling  eyes.  ‘‘  You 
have  come  to  reward  me,"  said  she,  ‘^and  you  are  king. 
What  care  I for  your  royalty ! The  king  has  not  the  power 
to  grant  my  wishes!" 

“ What  is  it,  then,  that  you  wish?"  he  asked,  in  embarrass- 
ment. 

“I  wish  what  the  king  cannot,  what  only  the  man  can 
grant.  I wish  you  to  love  me  as  dearly  as  the  prince  royal 
loved  me.  I crave  no  riches  and  no  treasures,  no  titles  and 
no  estates.  When  we  swore  that  we  would  love  and  be  true 
to  each  other  until  death,  you  did  not  dare  to  think  that  you 
would  some  day  reward  me  for  my  love.  When  we  exchanged 
our  vows  of  love  and  fidelity,  written  with  our  blood,  this  was 
the  marriage  contract  of  our  hearts,  and  this  contract  con- 
sisted of  but  one  paragraph.  It  only  secured  to  each  of  us 
the  love  and  fidelity  of  the  other  as  a dower.  Let  me  retain 


184 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


this  dower,  Frederick  William;  keep  your  treasures,  titles, 
and  estates,  for  your  favorites  and  flatterers.  Such  things  are 
good  enough  for  them,  but  not  for  me — not  for  the  mother  of 
your  children ! Leave  me  in  possession  of  my  dower  of  your 
love  and  fidelity!’' 

Frederick  lowered  his  eyes  in  confusion,  and  did  not  seem 
to  see  her  stretch  out  her  arms  imploringly.  He  turned  away 
and  walked  slowly  to  and  fro. 

Wilhelmine’s  arms  sank  down,  and  a deep  sigh  escaped  her 
lips.  ‘^The  decisive  hour  has  come,”  said  she  to  herself, 
^^It  shall  find  me  armed  and  prepared  for  the  struggle!” 

Suddenly  the  king  stopped  in  front  of  her,  and  a ray  of  de- 
termination beamed  in  his  genial,  handsome  countenance. 

Wilhelmine,”  said  he,  stand  on  the  threshold  of  a great 
and  sublime  future.  I will  not  act  a lie  at  such  a time. 
Between  us  there  must  be  perfect  and  entire  truth.  Are  you 
ready  to  hear  it?” 

am  ready,”  said  she,  gravely.  Truth  and  death  are 
preferable  to  life  and  falsehood.” 

“Come,  Wilhelmine,”  continued  the  king,  extending  his 
hand.  “ Let  us  seat  ourselves  on  the  sofa,  where  we  have  so 
often  conversed  in  earnestness  and  sincerity.  Let  us  converse 
in  the  same  spirit  to-day,  and  open  our  hearts  to  each  other 
in  honest  sincerity.”  He  conducted  her  to  the  sofa,  and 
seated  himself  at  her  side.  She  laid  her  head  on  his  shoul- 
der, and  subdued  sobs  escaped  her  breast. 

“Do  not  speak  yet,”  she  whispered.  “Let  me  rest  a mo- 
ment, and  think  of  the  beautiful  past,  now  that  your  future 
looks  so  bright.  I have  not  the  courage  to  look  at  the  future. 
It  seems  to  me  that  I am  like  those  unhappy  beings,  of  whom 
Dante  narrates,  that  they  walk  onward  with  their  faces  turned 
backward,  and  that  they  cannot  see  what  is  coming,  but  only 
that  which  has  been  and  which  lies  behind  them.  Ah,  like 
them  I see  only  what  has  been.  I see  us  two,  young,  happy, 
and  joyous,  for  the  star  of  our  youthful  love  shone  over  us. 
I see  you  at  my  side  as  my  teacher,  instructing  me,  and  en- 


NEW  LOVE. 


185 


deavoring  to  cultivate  my  mind. — Frederick,  do  you  remem- 
ber the  Italian  lessons  you  gave  me?  With  you  I read  Dante, 
you  explained  to  me  this  awful  picture  of  the  reversed  faces. 
Shall  I now  experience  through  you  the  dreadful  reality  of 
what  you  then  explained  in  the  poem?  Shall  I shudder  at 
the  aspect  of  the  future,  and  only  live  on  that  which  is  past 
and  gone?  Tell  me,  Frederick,  can  it  be  true,  can  it  be  pos- 
sible? Does  love,  with  all  its  happiness  and  bliss,  then  really 
lie  only  behind  us,  and  no  longer  before  us?  But  no,  no,  do 
say  so!”  she  cried,  imploringly,  as  she  saw  that  he  was  about 
to  speak;  ‘^let  us  be  still  and  dream  on  for  a moment,  as  we 
are  now  on  the  threshold  of  a new  era,  as  you  say.”  She 
ceased  speaking,  and  buried  her  head  in  Frederick  William’s 
bosom.  He  laid  his  hand  on  her  neck  and  pressed  her  to  his 
heart.  A long  pause  ensued.  A last  ray  of  the  setting  sun 
shone  in  through  the  window,  and  illumined  with  its  golden 
light  the  head  of  the  poor  woman  who  clung  trembling  to  her 
lover’s  bosom. 

The  last  ray  of  the  setting  sun ! The  spirits  of  the  past 
danced  and  trembled  in  its  luminous  course;  the  days  which 
had  been,  sparkled  and  glittered  in  its  last  ray,  and  then  expired. 

Ah,”  sighed  the  king,  after  an  interval  of  silence,  ‘^why 
is  the  human  heart  so  weak?  why  does  it  not  retain  like  the 
precious  stone  its  brilliant  tints  and  fiery  lustre?  why  do  the 
rainbow  hues  and  fire  of  love  vanish?  Why  has  fate  ordained 
that  all  things  should  be  subject  to  change,  even  love?” 

Wilhelmine  raised  her  head — the  hour  of  bitterness  was 
past;  she  now  had  courage  to  face  the  future,  to  pass  the 
threshold  of  the  new  era.  What  has  the  future  in  store  for 
her?  Will  it  be  gloomy?  Has  the  sun  set  for  her  whole  life, 
as  its  last  ray  has  set  in  the  chamber  where  she  now  sits,  in 
night  and  darkness,  at  the  side  of  the  man  she  once  called  the 
sun  of  her  life? 

You  no  longer  love  me,  Frederick  William!” 

“I  do  love  you,  Wilhelmine;  certainly  I do,  right  cordially 
a»nd  sincerely.  ” 


186 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


She  uttered  a loud  cry  and  pressed  her  hand  to  her  heart. 
How  different  was  this  tame  assurance  of  love  to  the  passion- 
ate protestations  of  former  days! 

“Speak  on,  Frederick  William,  speak  on!  I am  prepared 
to  hear  all!  You  love  me  right  cordially  and  sincerely,  you 
say?" 

“Yes,  Wilhelmine,  and  God  is  my  witness  that  this  is  the 
truth.  I desire  to  do  everything  to  contribute  to  your  happi- 
ness?" 

“Everything!  everything,  but  love  me  as  heretofore!" 

“Ah,  Wilhelmine,  man  is  but  man  after  all,  and  no  God! 
Nothing  in  his  nature  is  eternal  and  imperishable,  not  even 
love;  not  that  ardent,  passionate  love  which  is  only  crowned 
by  the  possession  of  the  loved  and  adored  object.  But  pos- 
session it  is,  this  longed-for  possession,  that  kills  love.  We 
are  only  charmed  with  that  for  which  we  long;  when  once 
attained  we  become  accustomed  to  it,  and  custom  begets  in- 
difference. It  is  heart-rending  that  it  should  be  so,  but  it  is 
so ! We  cannot  change  human  nature,  and  human  we  all  are!" 

“Words,  words,"  she  murmured.  “Why  not  say  it  all  at 
once.  You  do  not  love  me?  You  love  another?  Answer 
these  two  questions;  I conjure  you,  answer  them!" 

“I  will,  Wilhelmine.  I no  longer  love  you,  you  say.  It  is 
true,  I no  longer  love  you  as  I once  loved  you,  but  perhaps 
more,  perhaps  better,  more  purely!  I no  longer  love  you,  but 
I entertain  for  you  the  dearest  and  most  enduring  friendship. 
Love  is  like  the  sun : it  shines  brightly  in  the  morning,  but 
sets  when  evening  comes.  Friendship  is  like  the  evening  star, 
ever  present,  and  only  obscured  at  times  by  the  greater  brill- 
iancy of  the  sun.  Wilhelmine  our  sun  has  at  last  set  after 
gladdening  us  with  its  rays  for  many  long  years.  And  you 
cannot  justly  complain  of  its  departure;  it  was  necessary  that 
night  should  ultimately  come.  But  the  evening-star  still 
shines  in  the  heavens,  and  will  ever  shine  there!  I pray  j^ou, 
Wilhelmine,  bo  no  weak,  no  ordinary  woman!  Do  not  make 
useless  complaints,  but  look  at  matters  as  they  are.  Be 


NEW  LOVE. 


187 


strong,  and  overcome  the  petty  vanity  of  the  woman  who  feels 
herself  insulted  when  her  lover’s  passion  cools.  I do  not  love 
you;  and,  as  I am  a man,  and  as  the  human  heart  is  always 
susceptible  to  a new  love,  I am  also  ready  to  make  this  ad- 
mission : I love  another ! Be  composed,  do  not  interrupt  me 
with  reproaches.  This  is  unalterable,  and  we  must  have  the 
courage  to  look  the  truth  in  the  face ! Yes,  I love  another, 
and  love  her  as  ardently  as  I once  loved  you,  but — I now  no 
longer  believe  in  an  eternity  of  passion ; I know  that  it  will 
decline,  and  I therefore  no  longer  tell  my  new  love  as  I once 
told  you.  I will  love  you  as  long  as  I live ; but  I only  say,  I 
will  love  you  as  long  as  my  heart  will  permit ! I know  that  a 
day  will  come  when  I will  also  weary  of  this  love ; but  never, 
never  will  the  day  come,  Wilhelmine,  when  the  friendship  I 
feel  for  you  could  grow  cold,  when  I could  become  indifferent 
to  her  I once  so  passionately  loved,  and  to  whom  I owe  the 
happiest  years  of  my  life ! Some  day  my  heart  will  be  callous 
to  all  love  and  all  women,  but  it  will  ever  beat  warmly  for 
you ; the  days  of  my  youth  will  be  reflected  from  your  brow, 
and  the  recollections  of  happy  years  will  bind  me  more  flrmly 
to  you,  than  all  the  vows  of  love  could  bind  me  to  other 
women.  Be  as  strong,  brave,  and  wise,  as  you  have  always 
been ; forgive  me  this  human  weakness.  Eenounce  my  love, 
and  accept  my  friendship — my  true,  lasting,  and  imperishable 
friendship.” 

“Friendship!”  she  repeated,  with  mocking  laughter. 
“The  word  has  a freezing  sound.  You  promised  me  glowing 
wine,  and  now  you  offer  to  quench  the  thirst  of  my  heart  with 
cold  water.” 

“ Of  wine  we  grow  weary,  Wilhelmine.  Heavenly  intoxi- 
cation is  followed  by  highly  terrestrial  headache;  but  pure 
water  refreshes  and  revives  without  intoxicating;  it  gives 
health  and  tranquillizes  the  heart.” 

“Or  turns  it  to  ice,”  rejoined  Wilhelmine. 

“ Not  so,  it  gives  new  warmth ! And  thus  it  is  with  friend- 
ship also,  Wilhelmine.” 

lo 


188 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


‘‘And  all  this  means,”  said  she,  sobbing,  “that  you  intend 
to  drive  me  from  your  side,  to  banish  me?  I am  to  be  com* 
pelled  to  yield  to  a rival?” 

“ No,  that  you  shall  not  do!”  he  cried  with  vivacity.  “ No, 
you  are  only  to  consent  to  be  my  friend,  to  elevate  yourself 
above  all  petty  jealousy,  and  to  wisely  and  discreetly  adapt 
yourself  to  the  unavoidable.  If  you  should  not  be  able  to 
do  this,  Wilhelmine,  if  you  should  attempt  to  play  the  role  of 
the  jealous  Orsina,  instead  of  that  of  the  discreet  friend, 
then  only  would  I,  to  my  own  great  sorrow,  be  compelled  to 
separate  from  you,  to  renounce  the  pleasure  of  associating 
with  my  dear  friend,  and — ” 

“No,”  she  cried  in  dismay,  as  she  threw  her  arms  around 
him ; “ no,  I cannot  live  without  you,  I will  not  go  into  exile 
with  my  poor,  dear  children!” 

“With  your  children!”  repeated  the  king.  “Who  thinks 
of  sending  these  children  into  exile?” 

“ Do  you  not  consider  it  possible  that  you  will  send  me  into 
exile?  And  where  I am,  there  my  children  will  also  be,  of 
course!” 

“Where  you  are,  Wilhelmine,  there  your  daughter  will  be; 
that  is  lawful  and  natural.  But  the  son  belongs  to  the  father ; 
and,  whatever  may  divide  and  separate  us,  my  son  Alexander 
shall  not  leave  me ; my  bright,  handsome  boy,  remains  with 
his  father.” 

It  had  grown  dark,  and  he  could  not  see  the  light  of  the 
bold  resolution  Wilhelmine  had  formed,  sparkling  in  her  eyes. 

She  laid  her  hand  on  Frederick  William’s  shoulder.  “We 
are  standing  on  the  threshold  of  anew  era,”  said  she,  “my 
son  shall  now  decide  between  you  and  me.  I lay  my  fate  in 
his  hands,  and  will  accept  it  as  if  it  came  from  God.  We 
will  have  him  called,  and  he  shall  choose  between  his  father 
and  his  mother.  If  he  decides  to  leave  me  and  remain  with 
you,  I will  bow  my  head  in  humility,  and  will  remain,  and 
content  myself  with  your  friendship.  I will  stand  in  dark- 
ness, and  view  from  afar  my  happy  rival  sunning  herself  in 


THE  DECISION. 


189 


your  love.  But  if  my  son  should  decide  to  go  with  his 
mother,  then,  like  Hagar,  I will  wander  forth  into  the  desert. 
But  I will  not  complain,  and  will  not  feel  unhappy;  I wiE 
have  at  my  side,  my  son,  the  image  of  his  father ; the  son  in 
whom  I love  the  father!” 

‘^So  let  it  he,”  cried  the  king.  ‘^Our  son  shall  decide. 
Go,  and  bring  him  in.” 

“No,  I will  only  see  him  in  your  presence;  you  might 
otherwise  suppose  I had  influenced  his  decision.  Permit  me 
to  have  him  called.” 

She  rang  the  bell,  and  ordered  the  servant  to  bring  lights, 
and  request  his  young  master  to  come  at  once  to  his  majesty’s 
presence. 

“We  will  soon  learn  the  decision  of  fate,”  said  Wilhelmine, 
when  the  servant  had  closed  the  door.  “ For  fate  will  speak 
to  me  through  the  mouth  of  my  son!” 


CHAPTEE  IX. 

THE  DECISION. 

A FEW  minutes  had  hardly  elapsed  before  the  door  of  the 
parlor  was  opened,  and  Wilhelmine’s  son  entered.  With 
flushed  cheeks  and  a displeased  expression  on  his  handsome 
face,  the  boy  walked  up  to  the  king,  who  was  gazing  at  him 
tenderly. 

“ My  gracious  father,”  said  he,  “you  promised  to  join  us  in 
the  rose-pavilion,  down  at  the  river  side ; and  we  waited  and 
waited,  but  all  in  vain ! The  sunset  was  splendid ; it  was  a 
beautiful  sight  to  see  the  sun  fall  into  the  water  all  at  once; 
but  you  would  not  come  to  tell  the  dear  sun  ‘good-night.’ 
Why  not?  I think  a king  should  always  keep  his  word,  and 
you  certainly  promised  to  come!” 

“Well,  my  severe  young  gentleman,”  said  the  king,  smil- 
ing, “I  beg  your  pardon.  But  I had  to  speak  with  your 


190 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


mother  on  matters  of  importance,  and  you  must  have  the 
goodness  to  excuse  me.” 

The  boy  turned  and  looked  inquiringly  at  the  face  of  his 
mother.  “Was  it  necessary,  mamma?” 

The  king  burst  into  laughter.  “Eeally,”  he  cried,  “you 
are  a grand  inquisitor,  my  little  Alexander.  I am  almost 
afraid  of  you.  But  you  have  not  yet  answered  his  severity, 
mamma.  Excuse  me  to  this  young  gentleman  by  assuring 
him  that  we  had  matters  of  the  gravest  importance  to  discuss.” 

“Alexander  knows  that  what  the  king  says  and  does  is 
above  all  blame,”  replied  Wilhelmine,  gravely;  “and  I beg 
that  he  may  be  excused  for  losing  sight  of  the  king  and 
thinking  only  of  the  indulgent  father.  But  now  hear  why 
your  father  sent  for  you,  my  son;  and  answer  his  questions 
as  your  little  head  and  heart  shall  prompt.” 

“ Shall  I state  the  question?”  asked  the  king,  in  some  em- 
barrassment. “ I had  rather  you  did  it,  Wilhelmine.  How- 
ever,” he  continued,  as  she  shook  her  head  in  dissent,  “It 
shall  be  as  you  desire.  Listen,  my  little  Alexander.  Your 
mother  thinks  of  going  on  a journey,  and  of  leaving  here  for 
a few  years.  I intend  to  give  your  mother  several  estates  in 
Prussia  as  a remembrance  of  this  day,  and  she  may  conclude 
to  make  them  her  home  for  some  years.  Although  such  a 
life  may  be  pleasant  for  ladies,  it  is  very  quiet  and  lonely,  and 
not  at  all  suitable  for  a young  man  who  still  has  a great  deal 
to  learn,  and  who  is  ambitious  of  becoming  a soldier,  which 
he  could  not  well  accomplish  in  the  country.  I therefore, 
very  naturally,  desire  that  you  should  separate  yourself  from 
your  mother  for  a few  years,  and  remain  with  me,  your 
father,  who  certainly  loves  you  as  much  as  she  does.  But  we 
have  determined  to  leave  the  decision  to  you,  although  you 
are  still  so  young,  and  I now  ask  you,  my  son,  will  you  go 
with  your  mother,  or  will  you  remain  with  your  father?  Do 
not  reply  at  once,  my  child,  but  take  time  for  considera- 
tion.” 

“Oh,  my  dear  papa,”  said  the  boy,  quick V)  “there  is 


THE  DECISION. 


191 


nothing  to  consider,  I know  at  once  what  I ought  to  do.  My 
dear  mamma  has  always  remained  with  me,  she  has  never 
deserted  me.  And  when  I had  the  measles,  a short  time  ago, 
she  sat  at  my  bedside,  day  and  night,  and  played  with  me, 
and  told  me  such  beautiful  stories.  And  I would  never  have 
got  well  if  my  mamma  had  not  nursed  me.  Whenever  she 
left  my  bed,  if  only  for  a few  minutes,  I grew  worse  and  suf- 
fered much  more,  and  when  she  returned  I always  felt  re- 
lieved at  once.  And  how  could  I now  desert  the  dear 
mamma,  who  never  deserted  me?” 

“Oh,  my  child,  my  darling  child,”  cried  Wilhelmine,  her 
eyes  filling  with  tears,  “ God  bless  you  for  these  words ! But 
yet  this  shall  not  be  a decision.  You  must  take  some  time 
for  consideration,  my  son.  I am  going  to  live  on  my  estates, 
as  your  father  told  you.  It  will  be  very  quiet  and  lonely  in 
the  country ; there  will  be  no  soldiers,  no  beautiful  houses,  no 
amusements,  and  no  boys  to  play  with.  But  if  you  remain 
here  with  your  father,  you  will  have  all  this,  and  be  honored 
and  respected  as  a prince.  You  will  live  with  your  tutor,  in 
a splendid  house,  in  the  beautiful  city  of  Berlin,  you  will  take 
delightful  rides  and  drives,  and  see  the  soldier’s  drill  every 
day.  Your  father  will  give  you  all  you  desire.”  . 

“ Then  let  him  give  me  my  mamma,”  cried  the  boy  eagerly. 
“ Yes,  my  papa,  if  I can  live  with  my  dear  mamma  in  a fine 
house  in  Berlin,  and  if  you  will  come  right  often  to  see  us,  I 
will  have  all  I desire.” 

“ But  your  mother  will  not  remain  in  Berlin,  Alexander, 
and,  therefore,  you  must  decide  whether  you  will  go  with  her, 
or  stay  here  with  your  father.” 

“Well,  then,”  said  Alexander,  gravely,  “if  I must  choose 
between  you,  I will  go  with  mamma,  of  course.  To  be  sure, 
I am  very  sorry  to  leave  my  papa,  but  I cannot  live  without 
my  mamma ; she  is  so  good  to  me  and  loves  me  so  dearly,  I 
am  always  afraid  when  she  is  not  with  me.” 

Speechless  with  emotion,  Wilhelmine  sank  on  her  knees, 
her  countenance  radiant  with  delight,  and  extended  her  arms 


193 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


toward  her  son,  who  threw  himself  on  her  breast  with  a lov- 
ing cry. 

The  king  turned  away,  his  heart  filled  with  unutterable 
sadness.  He  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hands,  and  stood  in 
the  middle  of  the  chamber,  isolated  and  deserted  in  his  grief, 
while  he  could  hear  the  kisses,  sobs,  and  whispered  words  of 
tenderness  of  the  mother  and  her  son.  Suddenly  he  felt  a 
light  touch  on  his  shoulder  and  heard  a mournful,  trembling 
voice  murmur  his  name.  The  king  withdrew  his  hands  from 
his  countenance,  and  his  eyes  met  Wilhelmine’s.  She  stood 
before  the  king,  her  right  hand  resting  on  the  boy’s  shoulder, 
who  had  thrown  his  arm  around  her  waist  and  nestled  closely 
to  her  side. 

“Farewell,  Frederick  William!’*  said  she  in  a loud  and 
solemn  voice.  “ Hagar  is  going  forth  into  the  desert  of  life ! 
The  estates  and  treasures  which  you  offer  me,  I reject;  my 
children  must  not  suffer  want,  however,  and  the  little  that 
has  heretofore  been  mine,  I will  retain.  As  soon  as  I find  a 
place  where  I wish  to  remain,  you  will  be  informed  of  it,  and 
I desire  that  the  furniture  of  this  house  be  sent  to  me  there. 
The  house  shall  be  sold,  and  the  proceeds  will  constitute  my 
fortune  and  the  inheritance  of  my  children.  I leave  here 
with  my  children  to-night.  My  thoughts  and  blessings  will, 
however,  remain  with  the  father  of  my  children.  Farewell, 
your  majesty,  and  may  your  happiness  be  complete!  Fare- 
well !”  She  bowed  her  head  in  a last  greeting,  and  then  turned 
and  walked  slowly  through  the  room,  supported  by  her  son. 

The  king  looked  after  her  in  breathless  suspense;  with 
every  step  she  took  his  anxiety  increased.  And  when  she 
opened  the  door,  and  mother  and  son  were  about  to  pass  the 
threshold,  without  even  once  turning  to  look  at  him,  whose 
eyes  were  filled  with  tears,  and  who  was  regarding  them  with 
such  fondness  and  such  agony,  he  uttered  a cry  of  dismay, 
rushed  after  them,  seized  Wilhelmine’s  arm,  and  thrust  her 
back  into  the  room  with  such  violence  that  she  fell  helplessly 
to  the  floor,  and  her  son  burst  into  tears. 


THE  DECISION. 


193 


His  sobs  seemed  to  arouse  Wilhelmine  from  her  insensi- 
bility. She  arose,  and  turned  with  proud  composure  to  the 
king,  who  stood  before  her  almost  breathless  with  passion. 

Send  him  out  of  the  room,''  she  murmured.  “ He  should 
not  see  your  majesty  in  this  condition." 

The  king  made  no  reply,  but  took  the  boy  by  the  hand, 
kissed  him  tenderly,  i.nd  then  led  him  to  the  door,  and  locked 
it  behind  him.  He  then  returned  to  Wilhelmine,  who 
awaited  him  with  pallid  cheeks,  although  her  manner  was 
perfectly  composed. 

“Wilhelmine,"  said  he,  uttering  each  word  with  difficulty, 
“ Wilhelmine,  it  is  not  possible.  You  cannot  leave  me.  If 
you  go,  my  youth,  my  happiness,  my  good  star  go  with  you! 
Have  pity  on  me!  See  how  I suffer!  Be  great,  be  good,  be 
merciful!  Stay  with  me!" 

“Thou  hearest  him,  0 God,"  cried  Wilhelmine,  raising  her 
arms  toward  heaven.  “Thou  hearest  him,  and  Thou  seest 
what  I suffer ! I have  loved  him  from  my  youth.  I have 
been  true  to  him  in  every  thought,  with  every  breath  of  life. 
I have  borne  for  his  sake  shame  and  disgrace,  and  the  con- 
tempt of  the  world.  I have  bestowed  upon  him  all  the  treas- 
ures of  my  soul  and  heart;  and  yet  my  sacrifices  have  not 
been  great  enough,  I have  not  yet  been  sufficiently  humiliated. 
He  demands  of  the  mother  of  his  children  a still  greater  sac- 
rifice : that  I renounce  his  love,  and  stand  by  and  see  him 
give  to  another  the  love  he  swore  should  be  mine ! 0 Thou 

Great,  Thou  Almighty  God,  have  pity  on  me ! Send  down  a 
fiash  of  lightning  to  kill  and  save  me ! I cannot  live  without 
him,  and  I may  not  live  with  him." 

“Wilhelmine,"  said  the  king,  in  a hollow  voice,  “you  will 
not  make  this  sacrifice?  You  will  not  remain  with  me  as  my 
best  and  dearest  friend — the  friend  to  whom  I will  give  my 
whole  confidence,  who  shall  share  my  thoughts  as  my  sister 
soul,  and  from  whom  I will  conceal  no  secrets?" 

She  slowly  shook  her  head.  What  did  Cleopatra  determine 
to  do,  rather  than  grace  the  triumph  of  her  faithless  lover 


194 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


and  her  hated  rival,  and  pass  under  the  yoke?  She  deter- 
mined to  die;  she  let  loose  the  serpent  which  had  been  gnaw- 
ing at  her  heart,  that  it  might  take  her  life.  “ I prefer  to 
die  like  Cleopatra,  rather  than  live  like  the  Marquise  de 
Pompadour.” 

“Well,  then,”  said  Frederick  William,  his  voice  trembling 
with  emotion,  and  looking  tenderly  at  Wilhelmine,  “I  will 
prove  to  you  that  the  friendship  I entertain  for  you  is  stronger 
than  the  love  I have  given  to  another.  I sacrifice  to  you,  the 
beloved  of  my  youth  and  the  friend  of  r jy  soul,  all  the  wishes 
and  hopes  of  my  heart.  I will  renounce  my  love  for  the  maid 
of  honor,  Julie  von  Voss,  and  will  see  her  no  more.  She 
shall  leave  the  court,  and  I will  never  seek  to  recall  her. 
Are  you  now  contented,  Wilhelmine?  Will  you  remain  with 
me,  and  not  deprive  me  of  my  dear  son,  who  was  about  to 
leave  me  on  your  account?  Wilhelmine,  will  you  try  to  for- 
get, and — ” The  king’s  voice  faltered,  and  tears  rushed  to 
his  eyes,  but  with  an  effort  he  steadied  his  voice  and  con- 
tinued : “ and  will  you  sincerely  endeavor  to  compensate  me 
for  what  I sacrifice?” 

With  a cry  of  joy,  Wilhelmine  threw  her  arms  around  the 
king’s  neck,  and  pressed  a long  and  fervent  kiss  on  his 
quivering  lips. 

“I  thank  you,  Frederick  William,  I thank  you!  You 
promised  me  when  you  came  that  you  would  to-day  reward 
me  for  my  love  and  fidelity  during  the  long  years  which  have 
been.  You  have  kept  your  promise,  my  beloved ; you  have 
rewarded  me.  You  have  made  the  greatest  sacrifice  one 
human  being  can  make  for  another.  You  have  sacrificed  the 
passion  of  your  heart,  and  are  ready  to  keep  the  faith  which 
you  sealed  with  your  blood.  See  here,  Frederick  William, 
see  this  scar  on  my  hand!  This  wound  I gave  myself,  in 
order  that  I might  write  for  you  in  my  own  blood  my  vow  of 
love  and  fidelity.  You  kissed  the  wound  and  drank  of  my 
blood,  swearing  that  you  would  always  love,  and  never  desert 
me.  You  have  kept  your  oath,  Frederick  William.  You 


THE  DECISION. 


195 


have  conquered  yourself ; you  have  now  sealed  your  faith  with 
the  greatest  human  sacrifice.'' 

The  king  suppressed  the  sigh  which  trembled  on  his  lips, 
and  pressed  Wilhelmine’s  head  to  his  bosom.  ‘‘  Now  you  will 
remain,  Wilhelmine?  Now  you  will  not  go?" 

She  raised  her  head  quickly,  and  looked  at  him  with  beam- 
ing eyes.  “ I will  remain  with  you,  Frederick  William;  I will 
remain.  And,  stronger  in  my  love  than  Cleopatra  was,  I will 
pass  under  the  yoke,  and  march  quietly  in  the  triumphal  pro- 
cession of  my  rival.  Sacrifice  for  sacrifice!  You  were  ready 
to  sacrifice  your  passion,  I will  sacrifice  to  you  my  woman’s 
pride  and  vanity ! I,  the  discarded  woman,  will  walk  with- 
out murmuring  behind  your  new  love  and  be  her  trainbearer. 
Go,  Frederick  William,  and  woo  this  beautiful  young  lady; 
wed  her,  if  your  priests  will  permit ; be  happy  with  her,  and 
love  her  as  long  as  you  can,  and  then  return  to  your  friend, 
who  can  never  cease  to  love  you — whose  affection  for  you  is 
the  breath  of  her  life." 

“Oh,  Wilhelmine,  my  dear,  my  generous  Wilhelmine," 
cried  the  king,  pressing  her  to  his  heart,  “ I can  never  forget 
this  noble-hearted  generosity;  I can  never  cease  to  be  grate- 
ful ! I have  told  you  already,  and  I now  repeat  it : the  human 
heart  is  inconstant,  and  every  love  must  at  last  die;  but 
friendship  lives  forever.  No  earthly  desires  dim  the  pure 
flame  of  its  holy  affection.  Oh,  Wilhelmine,  I will  never  de- 
sert you;  never  shall  your  enemies  and  rivals  succeed  in 
estranging  my  heart  from  you,  my  friend." 

“ Swear  that  they  shall  not!"  cried  Wilhelmine,  raising  her 
right  hand.  “ Lay  your  fingers  on  this  scar  on  my  hand,  and 
swear  that  you  will  be  my  dear  friend  throughout  my  whole 
life,  that  nothing  shall  separate  us,  and  that  nothing  shall  in- 
duce you  to  drive  me  from  your  side,  but  that  I shall  live 
where  you  live,  and  ever  be  your  friend,  your  confidante,  and 
your  sister  soul." 

The  king  laid  the  fingers  of  his  right  hand  on  the  scar,  re- 
peated the  words  she  had  spoken,  and  swore  that  he  would  be 


196 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


her  true  and  devoted  friend  until  death,  that  he  would  never 
drive  her  from  his  side,  but  that  she  should  live  where  he 
lived,  and  remain  with  him  as  his  friend  and  confidante  for 
all  time.  * 

“And  now  that  we  have  come  to  an  understanding,“  said 
he  with  a joyous  smile,  “ I may  perhaps  be  permitted  to  re^ 
Ward  my  dear  friend,  and  shed  a ray  of  my  newly-acquirec} 
royalty  on  this  humble  dwelling!  You  said  some  time  ago 
that  you  desired  to  sell  this  house  and  live  on  the  proceeds  ol 
its  sale.  I approve  of  your  plan.  I will  purchase  this  house 
of  you  for  five  hundred  thousand  dollars.  You  will  endeavor 
to  live  on  the  interest  of  this  sum;  if  there  should  be  a hitch 
now  and  then,  and  debts  should  arise,  you  need  only  inform 
me  of  the  fact  and  they  shall  be  paid.“ 

“Oh,  my  dear,  my  generous  friend,“  cried  Wilhelmine, 
how  can  I thank  you,  how — “ 

“Be  still,“  said  the  king,  interrupting  her,  “I  have  not 
yet  quite  finished.  The  house  is  now  mine;  and  the  price 
agreed  upon  shall  be  paid  you  to-morrow  out  of  the  royal 
fund.  As  I can  do  what  I please  with  my  own  property,  I 
intend  to  make  a present  of  it  to  the  mother  of  the  Count  and 
Countess  von  der  Mark.  And  it  will  be  my  first  care  to  have 
it  enlarged  and  elegantly  furnished,  in  order  that  it  may  be 
a suitable  dwelling  for  the  Count  and  Countess  von  der  Mark, 
and  particularly  for  their  noble  and  beautiful  mother!“ 

“The  Count  and  Countess  von  der  Mark?“  repeated  Wil- 
helmine with  astonishment.  “Who  are  they?  Who  is  their 
mother?  I never  heard  of  them!“ 

“ You  shall  soon  become  acquainted  with  them,  only  wait,*’ 
said  the  king  smiling ; and  he  went  to  the  door,  unlocked  it, 
and  gave  the  bell-rope  which  hung  beside  it  a violent  pull. 

“ Where  are  the  children?“  asked  the  king,  of  the  servant 
who  rushed  forward  to  answer  his  summons. 

“ Your  majesty,  my  young  master  and  mistress  are  in  th^ 
dining-room.“ 

♦ This  scuue  is  accurate.— See  “ Mörnoires  de  la  Comtesse  de  Licutenau." 


THE  DECISION. 


197 


‘^Send  them  to  me  immediately/*  said  the  king;  and  he 
remained  standing  at  the  door  awaiting  them.  When  they 
came  running  into  the  parlor  with  anxious,  inquiring  looks, 
the  king  took  them  by  the  hand  and  conducted  them  to  their . 
mother. 

“Madame,”  said  he,  gravely,  “I  have  the  honor  to  intro- 
duce to  you  Countess  Mariane  and  Count  Alexander  von  der 
Mark.” 

“ Count  Alexander  von  der  Mark?’*  repeated  the  boy,  look- 
ing up  wonderingly  at  his  father.  “Who  is  that?” 

“ That  you  are,  my  son,”  said  the  king,  as  he  stooped  down 
and  raised  the  boy  up  in  his  arms.  “You  are  the  Count  von 
der  Mark,  and  your  sister  is  the  countess;  and  you  shall  have 
the  Prussian  eagle  in  your  coat  of  arms,  and  shall  be  honored 
at  my  court  as  my  dear,  handsome  son.  All  the  proud  court- 
iers shall  bow  their  heads  before  you  and  your  sister.  The 
Count  and  Countess  von  der  Mark  shall  have  the  precedence 
at  my  court  over  all  the  noble  families ; and  their  place  shall 
immediately  be  behind  the  royal  princesses.” 

“And  that  will  be  my  dear  mamma’s  place,  too?”  said 
Alexander.  “She  will  always  be  where  we  are?” 

“ Yes,”  said  the  king  hastily,  “ she  will  always  remain  with 
her  dear  children.  Yes,  and  (as  the  young  count  once  re- 
marked that,  if  he  could  live  in  a splendid  house  ‘under  the 
Linden-trees’  * with  his  mother,  and  if  I would  go  to  see 
them  right  often,  he  would  have  all  he  desired),  I will  make 
him  a present  of  the  most  magnificent  house  ‘under  the 
Linden-trees’  in  Berlin,  and  the  young  count  shall  live  there, 
and  I will  visit  him  right  often  in  his  new  home.” 

“That  will  be  splendid,”  cried  the  boy  clapping  his  hands 
“You  are  delighted,  too,  are  you  not,  Mariane?” 

“ Certainly  I am,”  replied  his  sister,  smiling,  “ and  I thank 
his  majesty  for  the  great  honor  he  confers  in  giving  us  such 
grand  titles.” 

“ I am  glad  to  hear  that  you  are  pleased  with  your  title,  my 

* “ Unter  den  Linden,”  a street  in  Berlin. 


198 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


dear  daughter ; but,  as  names  and  titles  do  not  sustain  life,  a 
sufficient  amount  will  be  set  apart  for  your  use  as  pin-money. 
And  when  a suitable  and  agreeable  gentleman  demands  your 
hand  in  marriage,  you  shall  have  a dowry  of  two  hundred 
thousand  dollars.  When  this  becomes  known  you  will  cer- 
tainly not  fail  to  have  a vast  number  of  admirers  from  which 
to  make  your  selection.  No  more  thanks,  if  you  please!  We 
will  now  go  to  dinner.  Count  von  der  Mark,  give  your 
mother  your  arm,  I will  escort  the  young  countess.’* 

^^Your  majesty,”  announced  the  servant,  who  entered  at 
this  moment,  “ Colonel  von  Bischofswerder  and  Privy-Cham- 
berlain von  Wöllner  have  just  arrived,  and  beg  to  be  admitted 
to  your  majesty’s  presence!” 

“True,  indeed,”  murmured  the  king,  “I  had  altogether 
forgotten  them.  Madame,  you  will  please  excuse  me  for 
withdrawing  from  your  society.  I must  not  keep  these 
gentlemen  waiting,  as  I directed  them  to  meet  me  here  on  im- 
portant business.  When  this  business  is  transacted  I must 
however  return  to  Potsdam.  Farewell,  and  await  me  at 
breakfast  to-morrow  morning.” 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  INVOCATION. 

“You  have  then  really  come,  my  friends,”  said  the  king. 
“ You  have  really  determined  to  attempt  to  invoke  the  In- 
visible?” 

“God  is  mighty  in  the  weak,”  said  Wöllner,  folding  his 
hands  piously;  “ and  we  men  are  merely  the  vessels  into  which 
lie  pours  llis  anger  and  His  love,  and  in  which  He  makes 
Himself  manifest.  By  fasting  and  prayer  I have  made  my- 
self worthy  to  commune  with  spirits.” 

“The  longing  after  the  Invisible  Fathers  throbs  in  my 
heart  and  brain ; and,  if  in  the  heat  of  this  longing  I invoke 


THE  INVOCATION. 


199 


them,  they  will  lend  an  ear  to  my  entreaties,  and  approach  to 
answer  the  questions  of  your  majesty,  their  best-beloved  son.*' 

‘‘Nor  have  I a doubt  on  the  subject,"  said  Bischofswerder, 
complacently.  “ I will  entreat  the  spirit  of  the  grand-kophta 
with  the  whole  strength  of  my  soul,  and  with  all  the  means 
which  the  holy  secret  sciences  place  at  my  disposal.  The 
hour  has  come  in  which  will  be  determined  whether  the  im- 
mortal spirit  controls  the  mortal  body,  compelling  it  to  obey 
its  behests  in  spite  of  time  and  space." 

“Then  you  really  consider  it  possible,  my  friend?  You 
are  yet  of  the  opinion  that  the  grand-kophta  will  appear  in 
answer  to  your  invocations?" 

“Yes,  sire,  I am  of  that  opinion!" 

“ That  is  to  say,  his  spirit  will  come  amongst  us  in  some 
intangible  shape.  You  cannot  be  in  earnest  when  you  assert 
that  he  will  answer  your  call  in  the  body,  as  I have  already 
told  you  that  the  grand-kophta  is  in  London.  Our  ambassa- 
dor not  only  saw  him  there,  but  spoke  with  him  the  very  day 
he  dispatched  the  courier,  who  arrived  here  yesterday." 

“ Your  majesty,  the  secret  sciences  teach  me  that  the  spirit 
controls  the  body ; and  we  will  now  test  the  truth  of  this  les- 
son. If  the  grand-kophta  does  not  appear  in  flesh  and  blood, 
and  give  to  your  majesty,  with  his  own  hand,  the  elixir  of  life 
for  which  your  soul  thirsts,  science  lies,  and  the  sublime 
spirits  consider  me  unworthy  of  their  confidence!  In  that 
event,  I will  renounce  my  right  to  enter  the  inner  temple ; it 
will  be  evident  that  I am  not  one  of  the  enlightened.  I will 
bow  submissively  to  the  anger  and  contempt  of  the  Invisible, 
and  return  voluntarily  to  the  outer  temple  to  begin  my  ap« 
prenticeship  anew." 

The  king  shook  his  head  thoughtfully.  “Your  faith  is 
heroic;  and  I only  hope  you  are  not  doomed  to  be  dis- 
appointed. And  now,  let  us  begin  our  work!" 

“ His  majesty’s  will  be  done,"  replied  the  two  Rosicrucians, 
respectfully.  “ Will  your  majesty  permit  us  to  go  to  the 
laboratory  in  order  to  make  our  preparations?" 


200 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


“ I will  accompany  you,  and  render  assistance  as  an  inferior 
brother.  You  know  that  no  one  besides  us  three  is  permitted 
to  enter  this  laboratory ; and  I therefore  keep  the  key  in  a 
secret  drawer  of  my  writing-desk,  which  I alone  can  open!” 

Permit  us  to  withdraw,  in  order  that  we  may  not  see  from 
what  place  your  majesty  takes  the  key.” 

The  two  Rosicrucians  walked  toward  the  door,  and  turned 
their  faces  so  that  they  could  not  see  what  was  done  behind 
them. 

“I  have  the  key,”  said  the  king,  after  a short  interval. 
“ Come,  my  brothers.  I am  now  ready!” 

He  walked  rapidly  to  the  door,  unlocked  it,  and  entered 
the  laboratory,  followed  by  Bischofswerder  and  Wöllner. 

But  hardly  had  the  king  stepped  into  the  room  before  he 
uttered  a cry  of  terror,  and  staggered  back,  pale  with  fright. 

‘‘The  Invisibles!  the  Invisibles!”  he  murmured.  “See! 
See ! They  knew  we  were  coming,  and  have  made  all  the 
preparations!” 

“All  hail,  the  Invisible  Fathers,”  cried  Wöllner,  with  en- 
thusiasm. “ They  have  prepared  the  altar.” 

“ The  Invisibles  are  awaiting  us;  they  approve  of  our  pur- 
pose,” shouted  Bischofswerder,  exultingly.  “ Oh,  behold,  my 
king!  Oh,  see,  my  brother!” 

He  drew  the  king  eagerly  to  the  large  furnace  which  oc- 
cupied one  entire  side  of  the  laboratory ; and  it  really  looked 
as  if  invisible  hands  had  been  at  work  in  this  chamber.  A 
bright  fire  was  burning  in  the  furnace,  jets  of  fiame  darted  forth 
through  the  openings,  and  licked  the  pans  and  retorts  in  which 
liquids  and  mixtures  of  various  colors  boiled  and  simmered. 

“All  is  prepared,”  said  Bischofswerder,  who  had  been  ex« 
amining  the  retorts  closely.  “ It  seems  the  Invisibles  are  con- 
cocting a secret  mixture.  But  my  eyes  are  blinded,  and  my 
brain  is  still  in  darkness;  these  substances  and  elixirs  are  un- 
known to  me ; I only  feel  that  tlieir  fragrance  fills  me  with 
wondrous  delight.  Oh,  come,  your  majesty,  and  inhale  this 
blessed  aroma — this  atmosphere  of  invisible  worlds!” 


THE  INVOCATION. 


201 


The  king  timidly  stepped  up  close  to  the  furnace,  and  in- 
clined his  head  over  the  retort  pointed  out  by  Bischofswerder. 
Dense  vapors  arose  from  the  bubbling  mass  and  enveloped  the 
king’s  head. 

“It  is  true,’'  said  the  king,  inhaling  deep  draughts  of  the 
vapor.  “It  creates  a wondrous  sensation  of  delight  and 
ecstasy!” 

“ It  is  the  fragrance  of  the  spirit-world,”  said  Wöllner,  im- 
pressively.— “Oh,  I feel,  I know  that  my  prayers  have  been 
heard.  They  are  coming ! Lo,  the  Invisibles  are  approach- 
ing! Look,  my  king,  look  up  there!” 

The  king  turned  eagerly  to  Wöllner,  whose  right  arm  was 
raised,  and  pointed  to  the  opposite  wall. 

“ See,  see  these  heavenly  forms  waving  their  hands  and 
greeting  us!” 

“ I see  nothing,”  murmured  the  king,  sadly.  “ The  visions 
which  bless  the  eye  of  the  anointed  are  invisible  to  me.  I see 
nothing!” 

No,  the  king  saw  nothing!  To  him  the  chamber  was 
empty.  He  saw  no  spirits,  nor  did  he  see  Bischofswerder 
throw  a handful  of  white  powder  into  the  large  retort  at  this 
moment.  But  he  saw  the  white  clouds  which  now  ascended 
from  the  furnace ; he  saw  the  flames  which  burst  forth  from 
the  retorts,  and,  in  the  explosions  and  detonations  which  en- 
sued, he  heard  the  roar  of  invisible  musketry. 

“The  Invisibles  are  contending  flercely,”  exclaimed  Wöll- 
ner. “ The  good  and  bad  spirits  are  warring  with  each  other, 
and  struggling  for  the  possession  of  our  noble  king.  The 
holy  ones  and  the  Eosicrucians  are  battling  with  the  free- 
thinkers and  scoffers,  and  the  so-called  enlightened.  Give 
the  former  the  victory.  Almighty  God!  Incline  Thyself  to 
the  believers  and  Eosicrucians,  and  deal  out  destruction  to 
the  unbelievers  and  scoffers ! On  my  knees  I entreat  thee. 
Thou  Euler  of  all  things ! have  pity  on  the  king,  have  pity  on 
us,  and — ” 

A loud  and  fearful  detonatiosn — a whistling,  howling  roar — 


202 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


drowned  his  voice.  Dense  white  clouds,  through  which 
tongues  of  flame  darted  in  every  direction,  ascended  from  the 
furnace  and  gradually  filled  the  room. 

The  king  had  staggered  back,  and  would  have  fallen  to  the 
ground,  but  for  Bischofswerder,  who  had  supported  him  and 
conducted  him  to  an  arm-chair,  into  which  he  sank  back 
helplessly.  His  eyes  closed,  and  for  a few  moments  he  was  in 
an  unconscious  condition. 

Suddenly  the  king’s  name  resounded  in  his  ear  and  aroused 
him  from  this  trance.  “Awake,  Frederick  William,  awake! 
Ours  is  the  victory ! The  holy  cross  of  love  and  of  roses  is 
victorious!  The  evil  spirits  have  flown!  Awake,  Frederick 
William,  awake!  The  Invisibles  are  ready  to  answer  your 
questions!” 

The  king  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  around.  He  saw 
nothing  at  first  but  the  clouds  which  encircled  him.  But 
suddenly  a face  seemed  to  arise  in  their  midst — a face  of 
deathly  pallor?  Long  brown  hair  fell  down  on  either  side  of 
the  broad,  but  low  forehead.  Its  widely-opened  glassy  eyes 
seemed  to  stare  at  the  king,  who  shuddered,  and  would  have 
turned  away  had  not  some  invisible  power  compelled  him  to 
continue  gazing  at  this  death-like  countenance.  By  degrees 
the  vision  grew  more  distinct,  and  stood  out  from  the  sur- 
rounding vapor  in  bolder  relief.  The  neck  and  shoulders  now 
appeared,  and  gradually  the  entire  body  of  a man  of  a power- 
ful build  was  disclosed.  He  wore  a tightly-fitting  jerkin  of 
leather;  his  neck  was  encircled  with  a broad,  double  lace 
collar.  A golden  star  glittered  on  his  breast,  and  a richly- 
embroidered  velvet  mantle,  bordered  with  ermine,  hung  down 
over  his  broad  shoulders.  This  mighty,  princely  figure  stood 
immovable  in  the  midst  of  the  white  clouds,  which  enveloped 
it  like  a winding-sheet.  But  its  large,  proud  eyes  seemed 
fixed  on  Frederick  William  with  a cold,  hard  look.  The  king 
shuddered,  and  uttered  low  entreaties  for  mercy. 

“ Fear  nothing,  Frederick  William,”  said  the  vision,  which 
spoke  without  opening  its  lips.  These  tones  struck  on  the 


THE  INVOCATION. 


203 


king’s  ear  like  a voice  from  the  grave.  “Fear  nothing, 
Frederick  William ; I have  not  come  to  alarm,  but  to  console 
you.  The  Invisibles  have  sent  me  to  soothe  your  heart,  and 
give  peace  and  consolation  to  your  soul.  Do  you  not  know 
who  I am,  Frederick  William?” 

“No,”  replied  the  king,  in  a low  voice,  “ I do  not.” 

“ I am  Philip  of  Hesse,”  rejoined  the  closed  lips.  “ Philip 
of  Hesse,  called,  by  foolish  and  short-sighted  men,  ‘The  Mag- 
nanimous. ’ ” 

“Ah,  now  I know  who  you  are,  my  prince,”  cried  the  king. 
“ You,  it  was,  who  overthrew  the  rebellious  peasants  in  bat- 
tle, who  overcame  Franz  von  Sickingen,  and  introduced  the 
reformation  into  Germany.  You  were  the  prince  who  sub- 
mitted to  the  Emperor  Charles  the  Fifth,  after  the  unfortu- 
nate battle  of  Mühlberg;  were  taken  prisoner  by  him,  and 
held  in  captivity  until  released  by  the  treaty  of  Passau.  Tell 
me,  sublime  spirit,  are  you  not  the  spirit  of  that  noble  prince, 
of  Philip  the  Magnanimous?” 

“I  am ! My  whole  life  was  a struggle,  and  I had  many 
enemies  to  contend  with.  But  my  most  formidable  enemy 
was  my  own  heart.  This  enemy  was  love,  passionate  love. 
Wedded  since  my  sixteenth  year  with  Christina  of  Saxony, 
selected  as  my  wife  for  state  reasons ; my  heart  became  in- 
flamed with  love  for  the  beautiful  Margaret  von  Saale,  and 
my  one  great  desire  was  to  win  her  and  call  her  my  wife. 
But  her  virtue  withstood  my  entreaties;  and,  although  she 
loved  me,  she  was  nevertheless  determined  to  fly  from  me 
unless  our  union  could  be  consummated  by  the  blessing  of  a 
priest.  It  was  in  vain  that  I besought  her  to  become  mine. 
These  were  days  of  agony,  and  this  struggle  was  harder  than 
any  I had  maintained  on  the  fleld  of  battle.  I then  suffered 
and  wept  as  though  I were  a puling  boy,  and  not  a warrior 
and  prince.” 

“You  are  recounting  the  history  of  my  own  sufferings,” 
murmured  the  king,  in  a low  voice.  “You  are  describing 
my  own  struggles!” 

14 


204 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


“I  know  it,”  replied  the  apparition.  “ My  eye  sees  your 
heart,  and  your  sufferings,  and  therefore  have  I come  to  con- 
sole you,  to  tell  you  that  I have  suffered  as  you  suffer,  and 
that  your  wounds  shall  be  healed  as  mine  were.  The  maiden 
you  love  is  as  virtuous  as  Margaret  von  Saale  was.  Like  Mar^ 
garet  von  Saale  she  demands  that  she  be  made  your  wedded 
wife.  In  my  distress  and  misery  I addressed  myself  to  the 
great  reformer,  whom  I had  patronized  with  pious  zeal.  I 
asked  Luther  if  the  church  could  bless  a marriage  of  the  left 
hand,  when  a marriage  of  the  right  hand  already  existed ; and 
Luther,  the  man  of  justice  and  of  truth,  replied:  ‘It  stands 
in  the  Bible  that  the  left  hand  shall  not  know  what  the  right 
does;  and,  consequently,  it  is  not  necessary  that  the  right 
hand  should  know  what  the  left  does.  The  wife  of  the  left 
hand  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  wife  of  the  right,  forced 
upon  you  for  reasons  of  state.  The  former  is  the  wife  of  the 
prince,  the  latter  will  be  the  wife  of  the  man.  And,  as  two 
persons  are  united  in  you,  the  prince  and  the  man,  these  per- 
sons can  contract  two  marriages,  the  one  for  the  prince  and 
the  other  for  the  man,  and  the  blessing  of  the  church  is  ad- 
missible for  both.  ’ But  the  sensitive  conscience  of  my  beau- 
tiful Margaret  was  not  yet  satisfied.  I now  turned  to  Philip 
Melanchthon,  the  great  scholar,  the  strictly  moral  and  virtu- 
ous man,  and  demanded  his  opinion,  telling  him  that  the 
decision  should  rest  in  his  hands.  But  Philip  Melanchthon 
decided  as  Luther  had  done,  and  proved  by  Holy  Writ  that 
such  a marriage  was  possible  and  admissible.  He,  however, 
added  the  condition  that  the  consent  of  the  wife  of  the  right 
hand  must  be  obtained  before  the  marriage  of  the  left  hand 
could  be  consummated.  My  generous  wife  gave  her  consent. 
Margaret  von  Saale  became  my  wedded  wife,  and  the  mother 
of  seven  children,  who  were  the  joy  and  pride  of  their 
parents.  To  tell  you  this,  I left  the  peaceful  grave.  Such 
were  the  commands  of  the  sublime  spirits,  who  are  greater 
than  I,  and  who  rule  over  the  living  and  the  dead.  Learn  by 
my  example  how  virtue  can  be  reconciled  to  love.  Put  away 


THE  INVOCATION. 


205 


from  you  the  unchaste  woman  with  whom  you  live ; turn  your 
countenance  from  her  forever — and  seek  and  find  your  happi- 
ness at  the  side  of  the  noble  young  woman  to  whom  you  shall 
be  united  by  priestly  blessings.  Farewell ! My  time  has  ex- 
pired, I must  go.’' 

The  apparition  seemed  to  melt  away ; it  grew  darker  and 
fainter.  For  a while  its  dim  and  uncertain  outlines  could  be 
seen  when  the  clouds  lifted,  and  then  it  disappeared  entirely. 
The  clouds  also  slowly  vanished ; and  now  they  were  gone, 
the  fire  could  once  more  be  seen  burning  brightly  in  the  fur- 
nace. The  king  looked  around,  and  observed  his  two  friends 
kneeling  and  praying  on  either  side  of  his  chair. 

^^Have  you  been  listening,  my  friends?  Did  you  hear  the 
utterances  of  the  blessed  spirits?” 

“We  have  heard  nothing  but  mutterings  and  shrieks,  and 
therefore  we  have  been  entreating  the  sublime  spirits  to  miti- 
gate their  anger,”  said  Wöllner,  shaking  his  head.  “But  I 
saw  a vision,  a heavenly  vision,”  cried  Bischofswerder.  “I 
saw  my  beloved  king  and  master,  standing  between  two  noble- 
women. They  both  regarded  him  tenderly.  They  stood,  the 
one  on  the  right,  the  other  on  the  left  hand;  on  the  ex- 
tended right  hand  of  both  glittered  a golden  ring,  the  precious 
symbol  of  marriage.  The  countenance  of  my  royal  master 
was  radiant  with  delight;  and  above  him  shone  the  star  of 
pure  and  chaste  love.  And  it  seemed  to  me  that  I heard  a 
heavenly  voice  cry:  ‘Find  your  happiness  at  the  side  of  the 
noble  young  woman  to  whom  you  will  be  joined  by  priestly 
blessings.’  ” 

“ These  were  the  last  words  of  the  sublime  spirit  that  ap- 
peared to  me,”  said  the  king,  joyfully.  “You  heard  them, 
my  faithful  friend,  while  wrestling  in  prayer  at  my  side. 
Oh,  I thank  you  both ; and  while  I live,  I will  reward  your 
fidelity.  But,  alas,”  continued  the  king,  with  a deep-drawn 
sigh,  “ I only  fear  that  my  life  will  be  of  short  duration!  I 
feel  weak  and  exhausted,  and  upon  you  and  your  infiuence, 
my  friend,  I depend  for  the  life-restoring  elixir.” 


206 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


“I  will  procure  it,  you  shall  have  it,”  cried  Bischofswerder, 
rising  from  his  knees  with  youthful  vivacity,  in  spite  of  his 
corpulence.  “ The  invocation  shall  now  begin.  I will  com- 
mand my  spirit  to  leave  the  body,  and  fly  through  time  and 
space  to  the  grand-kophta,  to  entreat  him  to  give  to  the 
doubting,  unbelieving  king  a visible  sign  of  his  heavenly 
power,  to  convince  him  that  the  mind  rules  over  the  body.” 

‘^Do  not  attempt  it,  my  dear  friend;  do  not,  I solemnly 
conjure  you,”  implored  Wöllner.  “It  is  tempting  God,  to 
seek  to  set  at  naught  the  laws  of  Nature.  It  is  possible  that 
your  mighty  spirit  has  power  to  tear  itself  from  the  body,  and 
transport  itself  from  place  to  place  with  the  rapidity  of 
thought;  but  consider  the  difficulty  of  returning,  consider 
whether  the  cold,  dead  body  can  be  a fitting  receptacle  and 
abode  for  the  spirit  on  its  return.” 

“ I know  that  this  is  the  great  danger  to  which  I shall  be 
exposed,”  replied  Bischofswerder.  “But  I will  dare  all  for 
my  king,  and  no  danger  shall  terrify  me  when  his  health  and 
happiness  are  at  stake. — Be  still,  my  king!  No  thanks  what- 
ever! I love  you!  That  suffices,  that  explains  all!  And 
now  let  me  take  my  departure!  Now  let  me  invoke  the 
grand-kophta,  the  dispenser  of  life  and  health ! — But  listen, 
Wöllner,  listen  to  these  last  words!  If  the  Invisibles  assist 
me,  and  enable  my  spirit  to  leave  its  earthly  tenement,  my 
body  will  grow  cold  and  assume  a death-like  appearance.  But 
this  must  not  lead  you  to  suppose  that  I am  dead.  Only 
when  this  condition  shall  have  lasted  more  than  half  an  hour, 
I beg  that  you  will  kneel  down  beside  my  body  and  entreat 
the  Invisibles  to  command  my  spirit  to  return  to  its  earthly 
abode.  Truly  I would  not  wish  to  remain  in  a bodiless  state, 
when  the  king  needs  my  services.  And  now,  my  king  and 
master,  permit  me  to  kiss  your  hand  before  I go.” 

“No,  my  true,  my  generous  friend,  come  to  my  heart!” 
cried  the  king,  as  he  embraced  Bischofswerder,  and  pressed  a 
kiss  on  his  forehead. 

“And  now,  hear  me,  ye  Invisibles!  Lend  an  ear  to  my 


THE  INVOCATION. 


207 


prayer ! Give  wings  to  my  spirit  that  it  may  fly  through  time 
and  space! — Here,  Wöllner!  hold  my  body!'* 

Wöllner  rushed  forward  in  answer  to  this  call,  and  caught 
Bischofswerder  in  his  arms  as  he  was  on  the  point  of  falling 
to  the  floor.  He  rested  the  head  on  his  breast,  covered  the 
face  with  his  hand,  and  gently  stroked  his  cheeks  and  brow. 
The  king,  who  stood  behind  him  in  breathless  suspense,  did 
not  comprehend  what  was  going  on,  and  did  not  see  the  little 
bottle  which  Wöllner  held  under  his  friend’s  nose,  nor  did  he 
see  him  slip  it  adroitly  into  his  coat-sleeve  when  he  arose. 
But  when  Wöllner  stepped  back,  and  pointed  solemnly  to  the 
tranquil  body,  the  king  saw  that  Bischof swerder ’s  spirit  had 
flown.  He  saw  that  the  pallid,  inanimate  object,  which  lay  in 
the  chair,  was  nothing  more  than  the  empty  tenement,  once 
the  abode  of  Bischof  swerder ’s  spirit.  Of  this,  the  widely- 
extended,  glassy  eyes,  and  the  stiffened  features,  were  sufficient 
evidence. 

The  king  shuddered,  and  turned  away.  It  is  fearful  to 
look  upon  the  lifeless  body  of  a friend  who  dies  in  an  endeavor 
to  save  and  prolong  our  life.  How  fearful,  if  death  should  be 
the  stronger,  and  prevent  the  spirit  from  returning  to  its 
dwelling!  Not  only  would  we  mourn  the  loss  of  a friend,  but 
his  death  would  have  been  in  vain,  and  the  elixir  of  life  un- 
attained! We  must  observe  the  time  closely  and  count  the 
minutes,  in  order  that  the  prayers  may  begin  when  the  half- 
hour  has  elapsed."  With  trembling  hands  the  king  drew  his 
richly- je  welled  watch  from  his  pocket,  and  watched  the  creep- 
ing hands  in  breathless  anxiety.  His  alarm  increased  as  time 
progressed,  and  now,  when  only  flve  minutes  were  wanting  to 
complete  the  half-hour,  the  king  turned  pale  and  trembled 
with  terror.  Only  one  minute  more,  then — " 

“He  moves,"  whispered  Wöllner.  “See,  your  majesty! 
Oh,  see!  There  is  life  in  his  eye,  his  mouth  closes,  the  hue 
of  life  returns  to  his  cheek.  A miracle,  a miracle  has  taken 
place!  The  spirit  has  returned  to  the  earthly  tabernacle!" 

Bischofswerder  is  once  more  among  the  living ; he  arises. 


208 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


His  eyes  seek  the  king  and  find  him.  With  unsteady  gait,  a 
smile  on  his  lips,  he  approached  the  king.  “ Sire,  my  spirit 
greets  you,  my  heart  shouts  for  joy.  I bring  you  glad  tid- 
ings! The  grand-kophta  has  yielded  to  my  entreaties.  He 
approaches  to  give  my  king  life  and  health,  and  above  all 
things  to  remove  his  unbelief!’' 

“He  is  then  really  coming?  He  approaches?”  cried  the 
king,  joyfully. 

“Call  him,  your  majesty!  Call  the  grand-kophta,  hut  do 
SO  with  a believing  and  confident  heart.” 

“ Grand-kophta ! Sublimest  of  the  sublime ! Lend  an  ear 
to  my  entreaties ! Appear  Divo  Cagliostro ! Appear,  my  lord 
and  master!” 

A flash,  a detonation,  proceeding  from  the  furnace,  near 
which  Wöllner  stands,  and  all  is  once  more  concealed  by  the 
clouds  of  vapor  which  All  the  room.  When  they  at  last  rise 
and  pass  away,  a tall  figure,  enveloped  in  a long  black  mantle, 
is  seen  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  The  head  only 
is  uncovered,  and  this  head  is  surrounded  with  waving  black 
hair,  in  the  midst  of  which  a precious  stone  shines  and  spar- 
kles with  the  lustre  of  a star.  And  the  large  black  eyes,  which 
are  fastened  on  the  king’s  countenance,  with  a mild  and  ten- 
der look,  also  shine  like  stars. 

Carried  away  with  rapture  and  enthusiasm,  the  king  falls 
on  his  knees,  and  raises  his  hands  in  adoration. 

But  the  grand-kophta  advanced  noiselessly  to  the  kneeling 
king,  begged  him  to  rise,  and  helped  him  to  do  so  with  his 
own  hand.  “Yes,  you  are  really  my  sublime  master,”  cried 
the  enraptured  king.  “ I feel  the  warm,  living  body,  the  lov- 
ing pressure  of  the  blessing-dispensing  hand.  Hail,  master! 
hail  Cagliostro!” 

“ You  appealed  to  me  for  assistance,”  said  Cagliostro,  in 
solemn  tones.  “ I heard  the  call  of  the  noble  messenger  yoi\ 
sent  me  as  I was  about  to  enter  the  St.  James’s  Palace  in 
London.  King  George  of  England  had  received  another  visi- 
tation from  the  demons  who  confuse  his  brain  and  darken  hia 


THE  INVOCATION. 


209 


intellect.  I was  sent  for  and  urged  to  come  at  once  and  drive 
out  the  demons  from  the  head  of  the  sick  king.  But  it  is  of 
more  importance  that  the  healthy  should  not  become  sick, 
than  that  the  sick  man’s  condition  should  be  somewhat  im- 
proved. The  spirit  Althotas  cried  out  to  me,  saying:  ‘Has- 
ten to  King  Frederick  William  of  Prussia;  without  your 
assistance  he  must  languish  and  die.  Hasten  to  preserve  his 
health  and  strengthen  his  noble  soul  with  the  breath  of  im- 
mortality. ’ At  first  I was  uncertain  of  whom  Althotas  spoke, 
for  I had  not  yet  heard  of  king  Frederick’s  death.  But  be- 
fore my  eyes  there  suddenly  arose  the  vision  of  an  old  man 
reclining  in  an  arm-chair.  He  was  on  the  threshold  of  the 
grave;  his  lips  quivered  and  his  eye  grew  dim,  and  the  blood 
refused  to  fiow  from  the  open  vein.  Two  weeping  servants 
stood  at  his  side;  a greyhound  lay  at  his  feet.  Above  him  in 
the  air  I saw  the  demons  of  unbelief  struggling  for  the  som 
which  had  just  left  the  body;  but  the  good  angels  turned 
away  in  anger.  And  I interpreted  this  vision  aright ; I now 
knew  that  the  unbelieving  king  was  dead,  and  that  Frederick 
William,  the  favorite  of  the  Invisible  Fathers,  was  now  king 
of  Prussia.  Althotas  then  cried  out,  for  the  second  time: 
‘Hasten,  Frederick  William  needs  you  sorely.  Hasten,  that 
he  may  not  die.  I impart  to  the  mortal  the  strength  of  im- 
mortality!’ I turned  my  back  on  St.  Jamec’s  Palace,  and 
immediately  repaired  to  the  holy  laboratory  of  the  spirits,  to 
procure  the  necessary  remedies.  I then  arose  and  fiew  to  my 
suffering  king  on  the  wings  of  the  Invisible.’’ 

“It  is  then  true,  it  is  really  possible!”  cried  the  enraptured 
king.  “ You  are  really  the  great  Cagliostro ! You  have  ac- 
complished this  miracle,  have  compelled  the  body  to  subject 
itself  to  the  will  of  the  spirit,  and  fiy  through  time  and  space 
at  its  command!  Oh,  let  me  fall  down  and  embrace  your 
knees!  Infuse  the  heavenly  breath  of  thy  lips  into  my  en- 
feebled body!” 

And  he  sank  on  his  knees  before  the  grand-kophta,  and 
looked  up  to  him  in  supplication. 


210 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


“Arise,  Frederick  William;  favorite  of  the  Invisible,  arise 
from  your  knees!  I have  not  come  to  humble  you,  but  to 
raise  you  up.  The  king  who  rules  over  millions  of  human 
beings,  must  not  bend  the  knee  to  mortal  man,  and  worship 
that  which  is  visible  and  perishable.  Humble  your  immortal 
spirit  before  the  immortal,  and  lift  up  your  soul  in  adoration 
to  the  unseen  and  imperishable.  Be  the  ruler  of  men,  and 
the  humble  subject  of  the  Invisible.  Arise,  Frederick  Will- 
iam, and  listen  to  what  I have  to  say,  for  my  time  is  short, 
and  Althotas  awaits  me  on  the  threshold  of  St  James’s  Pal- 
ace, in  London.” 

In  obedience  to  this  command  the  king  arose  from  his 
knees,  and  stood  before  the  magician,  whose  luminous  eyes 
were  still  fixed  intently  on  his  countenance. 

“You  are  not  ill,  Frederick  William,”  said  he,  “nor  are 
you  well ; your  spirit  lacks  buoyancy,  its  wings  are  drooping, 
and  your  pulse  is  feeble.  Death  is  slowly  but  surely  ap- 
proaching, and  you  would  languish  and  die,  if  there  were  no 
means  of  driving  off  this  grim  monster.” 

“ Oh,  have  pity  on  me!  Give  me  the  life-preserving  elixir^ 
Save  me!  I swear  that  my  gratitude  shall  be  unbounded, 
and  that  I am  ready  to  bestow  any  reward  that  the  Invisible 
Fathers  may  demand.” 

“ They,  indeed,  demand  no  sacrifice  and  accept  no  reward, 
as  men  do.  Their  actions  are  infiuenced  by  higher  laws. 
Love,  honor,  and  obedience,  are  the  rewards  they  exact.” 

“And  from  the  depths  of  my  heart,  I promise  them  love, 
honor,  and  obedience.” 

“ The  Invisibles  know  you  to  be  an  obedient  servant,  and 
therefore  am  I here  to  restore  health  and  strength  to  your 
body.  But  hear  me,  Frederick  William,  and  lay  my  words  to 
heart!  In  order  that  death  may  obtain  no  power  over  you, 
your  heart  must  regain  its  joyousness,  and  your  soul  its  buoy- 
ancy. A passionate  love,  which  you  are  too  weak  to  over- 
come, has  filled  your  heart,  and  therefore  its  joyousness  is 
dimmed.  Then,  gratify  this  passion,  Frederick  William! 


THE  INVOCATION. 


211 


The  Invisibles  give  their  consent ! Let  your  whole  being  be 
imbued  with  this  pure,  this  noble  love ; renounce  all  ignoble 
passions  and  desires.  Make  the  fair  maiden  you  love  your 
wife,  and  peace,  joy,  and  tranquillity,  will  once  more  abide  in 
your  heart,  and  your  spirit  will  regain  its  buoyancy,  and  bear 
you  aloft  to  the  heights  of  enthusiasm.  But  your  body  shall 
also  be  restored  to  health ; we  will  drive  from  it  all  weakness 
and  disease.  I bring  you  the  elixir  of  life,  of  health,  and  of 
strength!” 

Oh,  thanks,  unspeakable  thanks!”  cried  Frederick  Will- 
iam, seizing  the  little  bottle  which  Cagliostro  held  in  his 
hand,  and  carrying  it  eagerly  to  his  lips. 

“Let  me  drink,  sublime  master!  Let  me  drink  of  this 
heavenly  elixir  at  once!” 

“ No ! Save  this  precious  medicine  for  a time  when  you 
will  need  it,  when  I will  no  longer  be  with  you.  For  the 
present  I am  here,  and  I will  infuse  strength  and  health  into 
your  body!  Eeceive  these  blessings,  Frederick  William!  In 
the  name  of  the  Invisible,  I anoint  you  king  of  the  world 
and  of  life!” 

As  he  uttered  these  words,  he  poured  a few  drops  of  some 
fluid  on  the  king’s  head  from  a bottle  which  he  held  in  his 
hand.  A delicious  fragrance  instantly  fllled  the  room.  The 
king  raised  his  head  with  an  exclamation  of  delight,  and  in- 
haled, in  long  draughts,  the  fragrant  atmosphere. 

“ A wondrous  sensation  thrills  my  being;  I feel  so  happy,  so 
buoyant ! I am  leaving  earth ; and  now  I seem  to  see  the  por- 
tals of  Paradise!” 

“Take  this,  and  these  portals  will  open  to  your  view,”  said 
Cagliostro,  handing  the  king  a little  pill  of  some  grayish  sub- 
stance. “ Eat  this,  and  all  the  bliss  of  Paradise  will  be  yours!’' 

The  king  took  the  pill  from  Cagliostro ’s  extended  hand, 
carried  it  to  his  lips,  and  slowly  swallowed  it.  Instantly  a 
tremor  seized  his  whole  body,  his  cheeks  turned  deathly  pale; 
he  tottered  and  sank  back  into  the  chair  which  Wöllner  had 
noiselessly  rolled  forward. 


212 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


Cagliostro  stooped  down  over  him,  and  regarded  the  shadows 
which  passed  across  and  darkened  the  king’s  countenance. 
By  degrees  these  shadows  disappeared.  His  features  bright* 
ened,  and  at  last  his  countenance  shone  with  joy  and  happi- 
ness, and  was  radiant  with  smiles. 

‘‘He  is  in  Paradise,”  said  Cagliostro,  stepping  back  from 
the  chair.  “ His  spirit  revels  in  heavenly  delights.  An  hour 
will  elapse  before  he  returns  from  Paradise  to  this  earth,  and 
the  remembrance  of  what  he  has  seen  and  enjoyed  in  this 
hour  will  be  a sunbeam  in  his  existence  for  a long  time  to 
come.  He  will  long  for  a renewal  of  this  bliss,  and  you  must 
console  him  with  the  promise,  that  I will  either  appear  to  him 
in  person,  or  else  send  him,  by  a messenger,  at  the  expiration 
of  each  year,  one  of  these  wonderful  pills,  which  condenses 
the  delights  of  a whole  life  into  one  hour,  provided  he  is  an 
humble  and  obedient  servant,  and  does  the  will  of  the  Invis- 
ible in  all  things.  His  soul  is  lost  in  rapture,  and  his  ear  is 
closed  to  all  earthly  sounds! — And  now,  my  friends,  come 
nearer,  and  listen  to  my  words.” 

The  two  Eosicrucians,  Wöllner  and  Bischofswerder,  ap- 
proached, in  obedience  to  his  command ; and  when  Cagliostro 
Jaid  his  hands  on  their  shoulders,  their  countenances  beamed 
with  delight. 

“Speak  to  us,  sublime  master!  Your  utterances  fall  on 
our  souls  like  heavenly  dew.  Speak,  and  command  your 
servants  to  do  your  will!” 

“ You  must  continue  the  course  marked  out  for  you  by  the 
Fathers  through  me.  You  must  aid  in  building  up  the  king- 
dom of  the  Church  and  the  Invisible  on  this  earth.  The  In- 
visible Church,  and  her  visible  priests  and  representatives, 
shall  alone  rule  on  earth  in  the  future,  and,  therefore,  thrones 
must  be  overturned,  crowns  trodden  in  the  dust,  and  the 
names  of  the  kings  and  princes  of  earth  uprooted  like  weeds 
and  cast  in  the  oven.  An  era  of  terror  is  drawing  nigh  when 
the  sword  and  firebrand  will  go  hand  in  hand  through  the 
laud,  and  rapine  and  slaughter  be  the  order  of  the  day.  The 


THE  INVOCATION. 


213 


demons  of  insurrection  and  rebellion  are  already  at  work, 
threatening  princes,  and  greeting  the  people  with  these  words 
of  promise:  Liberty  and  Fraternity.  We,  the  Invisible,  the 
Sacred  Fathers  of  the  holy  Church,  have  sent  them  out  to 
carry  terror  to  the  hearts  of  princes.  The  king  who  has  just 
died  devoted  his  whole  life  to  the  enfranchisement  of  the 
spirit  of  the  people ; our  chief  endeavor  must  be  to  fetter  this 
spirit,  and  restore  the  people  and  their  rulers  to  their  former 
humility  and  submission.  They  must  do  penance  in  sack- 
cloth  and  ashes,  and  be  made  aware  that  the  priests  of  the 
holy  Church  and  the  pious  brothers  of  the  order,  can  alone 
save  them,  and  reduce  their  rebellious  subjects  to  obedience 
and  submission.  The  knife  and  burning  fire  are  sometimes 
necessary  to  heal  wounds  and  diseases.  And  these  remedies 
we  will  apply.  The  revolution  can  be  made  a mighty  and 
sublime  weapon  in  the  hands  of  the  Invisible,  and  the  bloodiest 
paths  may  lead  to  the  greatest  good ! Alas,  that  we  should  be 
compelled  to  tread  such  paths!’' 

“Alas!  alas!”  cried  the  two  Eosicrucians,  pale  with  terror. 
The  countenance  of  the  slumbering  king,  however,  still  wore 
the  same  enraptured  expression. 

“But,”  continued  Cagliostro,  “of  these  evils,  good  will 
come.  The  proud  fiesh  shall  be  cut  out  with  the  knife,  and 
the  wound  burned  with  fire,  in  order  that  it  may  heal  the 
more  rapidly.  The  storm  of  the  revolution  will  shake  the 
earth.  Thrones  will  tremble,  and  princes  fall  down  in  the 
dust.  The  people  will  be  lashed  to  fury,  like  the  waves  of 
the  storm-tossed  sea.  But  the  holy  Church  will  be  the  little 
vessel  that  bids  the  sea  be  still,  and  stems  the  tide  of  the  peo- 
ple’s wrath  by  leading  them  back  to  humility  and  belief. 
Anger  makes  blind,  and  in  their  blindness  they  can  the  more 
readily  be  fettered.  We,  the  Invisible  Fathers,  use  the  peo- 
ple to  terrify  the  rulers.  In  all  parts  of  Europe,  the  fathers 
and  brothers  of  our  order  are  preparing  this  work  of  destruc- 
tion and  overthrow,  in  order  that  the  noble  and  sublime  may 
be  built  up  anew  out  of  the  debris.  Oh,  my  brothers,  perform 


214 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


diligently  your  allotted  task ! In  the  name  of  the  Invisible 
Fathers,  I deliver  over  to  you  this  kingdom  and  this  king ! 
Govern  him,  and  make  him  serviceable  to  the  holy  order  and 
the  holy  Church.  You  shall  rule  in  Prussia.  Build  up  the 
good,  destroy  the  evil ! But  the  greatest  good  is,  belief ; the 
greatest  evil,  unbelief!  Boot  out  the  king’s  unbelief!  You 
will  be  justified  in  using  any  means,  for  the  end  sanctifies  the 
means ; and  even  that  which  is  in  itself  vile,  becomes  a holy 
weapon  in  the  hands  of  the  chosen! — And  now,  my  brothers, 
I bid  you  a final  adieu;  my  time  has  expired,  I must  go!” 

“Oh,  master,  do  not  leave  us!”  cried  Bischofswerder. 
“ Stay  with  us,  and  promote  our  holy  ends.” 

“ Stay  with  us,  and  assist  us  in  leading  the  king  back  to 
the  right  path,”  exclaimed  Wöllner. 

“ You  can  accomplish  it  without  my  assistance.  Your  will 
is  strong,  and  his  resistance  will  be  but  feeble!  You  shall  be 
the  kings  of  Prussia;  you  shall  reign  in  the  land!  But  do 
not  forget  that  as  rulers  you  will  still  be  servants!” 

“ That  we  will  never  forget ! We  will  ever  obey  the  com- 
mands of  the  Invisibles,  and  faithfully  execute  their  will  as 
announced  to  us  by  your  sublime  lips!” 

“ Who  knows  that  my  lips  will  never  speak  to  you  again,” 
said  Cagliostro,  in  a sad  voice.  “ I wander  through  the 
world  on  the  verge  of  an  abyss,  and  the  storm  and  revolution 
are  my  companions.  Prom  the  murder  and  bloodshed  of  the 
revolution,  the  Church  will  blossom  afresh.  Eemember  these 
words,  ye  brothers  of  the  cross  and  of  the  roses ! Eemember 
them,  and  farewell  forever!” 


CHAPTEE  XI. 

THE  WILL. 

The  solemn  ceremony  was  over.  The  body  of  the  great 
king  had  been  borne  forth  from  the  apartments  in  which  he 
had  governed  Prussia  for  so  many  years;  from  the  house 


THE  WILL. 


215 


which  had  been  his  chief  delight  on  earth,  and  which  was 
thenceforth  to  stand  as  a monument  of  his  life.  But  the  de- 
ceased king’s  commands  and  wishes  were  disregarded  in  the 
very  beginning.  And  it  was  made  manifest  to  the  world  that 
his  successor  did  not  intend  to  walk  in  his  footsteps,  and  did 
not  share  his  independent  views  on  religious  subjects,  and  his 
freedom  from  all  prejudices.  Frederick  had  caused  a burial 
vault  to  be  built  for  himself  on  the  terraces.  He  desired  that 
his  body  should  find  a last  resting-place  in  the  garden  which 
he  had  made,  and  near  the  house  in  which  he  had  lived  with 
his  friends,  and  in  which  he  had  been  so  happy! 

But  his  successor  considered  such  a resting-place,  in  the 
temple  of  Nature,  and  under  the  dome  erected  by  the  hand 
of  the  Almighty,  an  unfit  abode  for  the  remains  of  a king. 
He  considered  the  temple  of  brick  and  mortar  erected  by  the 
hand  of  man  a far  more  worthy  receptacle  for  the  dead 
monarch. 

The  philosopher  of  Sans-Souci  had  not  attended  church  for 
many  years ; and  now,  as  if  to  proclaim  to  the  world  that  a 
revolution  had  taken  place  in  Prussia,  the  king’s  body  was 
deposited  in  the  church.  To  the  Garrison  Church  in  Pots- 
dam, where  the  plain  and  unadorned  coffin  of  King  Frederick 
William  the  First  had  been  placed  in  the  vault  under  the 
altar,  the  gloomy  funeral  procession  of  the  dead  ruler  wended 
its  way  on  the  evening  of  the  eighteenth  of  August.  His 
generals  and  officers,  the  magistrate  of  Potsdam,  and  the 
members  of  his  household,  followed  the  funeral  car.  But  his 
successor.  King  Frederick  William,  and  the  princes  and 
princesses,  were  not  present.  In  solitude,  as  he  had  lived. 
King  Frederick  descended  into  the  dark  vault  in  which  the 
coffin  of  his  father  awaited  him.  In  life,  they  had  kept  at  a 
distance  from  each  other ; death  now  brought  them  together, 
and  their  mortal  remains  lay  side  by  side  in  peace  and  tran- 
quillity. Death  reconciles  all  things ; in  his  hands  even  kings 
are  but  as  the  dust  of  the  earth. 

On  the  morning  after  Frederick’s  interment.  King  Freder- 


216 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


ick  William  repaired  to  Sans-Souci,  whore  the  opening  and 
reading  of  the  monarch’s  will  was  to  take  place.  The  royal 
princes,  who  had  not  accompanied  the  king’s  body  to  its  last 
resting-place,  were  by  no  means  absent  on  this  momentous 
occasion,  and  Princes  Henry  and  Ferdinand,  and  even  the 
Princess  Amelia,  Frederick’s  sister,  who  was  decrepit  from 
age,  and  deformed  by  the  mental  and  bodily  anguish  she  had 
undergone,  had  come  to  Sans-Souci  to  be  present  at  the  read- 
ing of  the  will.  These  three  were  standing  in  an  alcove,  con- 
versing eagerly,  but  in  an  undertone.  Their  manner  was 
expressive  of  resentment  and  anger,  and  the  glances  which 
they  from  time  to  time  cast  toward  the  door  through  which 
the  king  was  expected  to  enter,  were  full  of  hatred  and 
derision. 

“Bischofswerder  has  been  made  colonel;  and  Wöllner, 
privy-councillor,’' murmured  Prince  Henry,  bitterly;  “even 
that  abominable  fellow,  Eietz,  has  received  a title.  But  he 
never  thought  of  his  family;  for  us  there  are  no  favors.” 

“And  how  could  there  be?”  rejoined  Princess  Amelia,  in 
her  sharp,  scornful  voice.  “ The  favorites  stand  where  the 
golden  shower  falls,  and  you  do  not  desire  that  we  should  do 
likewise,  I hope?  I,  for  my  part,  shall  certainly  decline  the 
honor  of  standing  at  Wilhelmine  Enke’s  side;  nor  have  I any 
desire  to  share  the  royal  favor  with  the  king’s  new  flame,  the 
maid  of  honor.  Von  Voss.” 

“She  will  soon  hold  an  important  position,”  whispered 
Prince  Ferdinand.  “ The  king  intends  to  make  her  his  wife.” 

“Impossible!”  exclaimed  the  hoarse  voice  of  the  princess. 
“ That  is,  unless  our  dear  nephew  first  manages  to  put  his 
legitimate  wife  out  of  the  way  with  the  aid  of  his  sorcerers.” 

“ Perhaps  he  intends  to  take  King  Solomon  as  his  model,” 
said  Prince  Henry,  derisively.  “ He  also  was  an  arch- 
profligate, although  he  was  accounted  a most  holy  and  worthy 
king.” 

“ Let  him  pronounce  a Solomon’s  judgment  on  himself,” 
screeched  the  princess;  “let  him  cut  himself  in  three  pieces; 


THE  WILL. 


2i7 


one  for  the  queen,  a second  for  Wilhelmine  Enke,  and  the 
third  for  the  new  favorite.” 

“ The  last  must,  however,  be  spoken  of  with  the  greatest 
deference,”  whispered  Prince  Ferdinand.  ‘‘The  king  will 
have  it  so.  The  maid  of  honor.  Von  Voss,  is  exceedingly 
virtuous,  and  insists  on  a marriage.  The  king  had  an  inter- 
view with  the  young  lady  on  the  day  of  Frederick’s  death; 
and  she  then  imposed  three  conditions : She  demands  that 
the  queen’s  consent  be  first  obtained,  then  a church  marriage, 
and  finally  the  king’s  separation  from  Madame  Eietz.” 

“The  queen  will  not  give  her  consent,”  said  Princess 
Amelia. 

“ She  has  already  done  so ! The  Privy-Chamberlain  Eietz, 
accomplished  this  masterpiece  of  diplomacy.  The  king  pays 
his  wife’s  debts,  and  doubles  her  pin-money;  and  for  this 
consideration  she  consents  to  the  marriage  of  the  left  hand.”  * 

“They  are  all  mercenary  creatures,  these  women,”  mut- 
tered Prince  Henry.  “ They  are  like  dissembling  cats,  that 
are  always  ready  to  scratch  and  betray  their  best  friends.  In 
this  respect  a queen  is  no  better  than  a beggar-woman ! For 
money,  a queen  compromises  her  honor  and  her  rights ; and 
permits  a virtuous  mantle  to  be  thrown  over  vice.  But  this 
time  it  will  be  of  no  avail,  since  no  priest  can  be  found  to 
consummate  this  unlawful  marriage.” 

“You  are  mistaken,  my  dear  brother,”  said  Prince  Ferdi- 
nand, smiling.  ‘^One  has  already  been  found.  The  king 
asked  advice  of  his  newly-appointed  Privy-Councillor  Wöllner. 
This  fellow  was  formerly  a preacher,  as  you  well  know,  and 
is  therefore  well  acquainted  with  priestly  stratagems.  He 
proved  to  the  king,  by  historical  references,  that  such  double 
marriages  were  possible,  and  that  even  Luther  had  permitted 
the  landgrave  Philip  to  contract  a marriage  of  this  kind. 
Moreover,  he  called  the  king’s  attention  to  the  fact,  that  he 
was  an  ordained  preacher  himself,  and,  as  such,  entitled  to 
exercise  the  functions  of  that  calling,  and  offered  to  perform 
the  ceremony  himself.” 

* HistoricaL 


218 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


‘‘  They  are  all  mercenary  creatures,  these  men,”  said  Prim 
cess  Amelia,  with  a malicious  side  glance  at  her  brother. 
Prince  Henry. 

“I  am  surprised  to  hear  that,  my  dear  sister,”  remarked 
Prince  Henry.  “ It  seems  you  have  changed  your  opinion  of 
men  very  materially.” 

“No,”  she  rejoined,  angrily,  “no,  I have  always  known 
that  men  were  miserable  creatures.  There  were  only  two  ex- 
ceptions: the  one  was  my  brother  Frederick,  and  the  other 
was  the  man  whom  even  the  great  King  Frederick  could  not 
keep  in  fetters — he  who  broke  the  heaviest  bars  and  strongest 
chains  with  the  strength  of  his  invincible  spirit,  and  liberated 
himself  in  defiance  of  all  kings  and  jailers.  I thank  you, 
Henry,  for  reminding  me  of  him ! My  heart  has  been  enven- 
omed by  mankind,  and  is  old  and  withered,  but  it  grows 
warm  and  young  again  when  I think  of  him  for  whom  I suf- 
fered so  much,  and  who  made  of  me  the  old  hag  I now  am. — 
But  here  comes  the  king,  our  dear  nephew.”  And  Amelia, 
whose  countenance  had  been  illumined  for  a moment  with  a 
ray  of  youth,  resumed  her  spiteful  and  gloomy  look,  and  hob- 
bled toward  her  dear  nephew,  who  was  just  entering  the 
chamber,  followed  by  Count  von  Herzberg  and  the  newly- 
appoined  minister  of  state.  Von  Voss.  “ How  handsome  your 
majesty  looks!”  cried  Princess  Amelia,  in  her  hoarse  voice; 
“ how  young  and  handsome ! If  it  were  not  for  the  thin  hair, 
the  embonpoint,  and  the  dear  wife,  one  might  take  your  maj- 
esty for  a youthful  Adonis,  going  a wooing,  and — ” 

“ And  who  has  the  misfortune  to  meet  a bad  fairy  * on  the 
road.  But  it  makes  no  difference,  custom  has  robbed  your 
evil  glance  of  its  terrors,  and  we  will  never  cease  to  love  and 
esteem  you.  I beg  leave  to  assure  my  dear  aunt  Amelia,  as 
well  as  my  two  uncles,  that  I will  always  remain  their  affec- 
tionate and  devoted  nephew,  and  that  it  will  afford  me  the 
greatest  pleasure  to  gratify  their  wishes.  However,  we  will 
speak  of  this  hereafter,  but  now  let  us  consider  the  grave  pur- 

* A nickname  given  the  princess  at  court. 


THE  WILL. 


219 


pose  for  which  we  have  come  together.  Count  von  Herzberg, 
I beg  you  to  conduct  the  ambassador  of  the  Duke  of  Bruns- 
wick to  our  presence.*' 

The  king  seated  himself  on  the  sofa  which  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  room.  Princess  Amelia  and  the  two  princes 
seated  themselves  in  chairs,  in  his  immediate  vicinity.  In 
front  of  them,  and  near  the  window,  stood  a table  covered 
with  green  cloth,  and  beside  it  three  elegantly  carved  chairs. 
This  was  Frederick  the  Great’s  writing-desk,  the  desk  at 
which  he  had  thought  and  labored  so  much  for  the  welfare 
md  honor  of  his  kingdom  and  subjects. 

‘‘  Baron  von  Hardenberg,  minister,  and  extraordinary  am- 
bassador of  his  highness,  the  Duke  of  Brunswick, ’’.cried 
Count  Herzberg  as  he  entered  and  presented  this  gentleman 
to  the  king.  Baron  von  Hardenberg  bowed  with  the  grace  of 
a courtier  and  an  elegant  man  of  the  world,  and  then  looked 
up  at  the  king,  expectantly,  with  an  air  of  perfect  ease  and 
composure. 

“ Speak,  Baron  von  Hardenberg,”  said  the  king,  with  some 
little  embarrassment,  after  a short  pause.  ‘^My  uncle,  the 
Duke  of  Brunswick,  sends  you.  What  message  does  the 
baron  bring?” 

Sir,  I bring,  at  the  command  of  my  gracious  master,  the 
duke,  the  last  will  and  testament  of  King  Frederick  the  sec- 
ond, of  blessed  memory — with  unbroken  seals,  and  in  exactly 
the  same  condition  as  when  years  ago  delivered  by  his  deceased 
majesty  to  the  duke,  and  by  him  deposited  in  the  state  ar- 
chives at  Brunswick,  where  it  has  remained  until  now.” 

The  baron  handed  the  sealed  document  to  the  king,  and 
begged  him,  and  the  princes,  and  ministers,  to  examine  the 
seals,  to  assure  themselves  that  they  had  not  been  tampered 
with,  and  requested  his  majesty  to  break  them,  and  open  the 
will,  after  having  satisfied  himself  of  that  fact.  After  this 
had  been  done,  and  after  Herzberg  had  testified  to  Frederick’s 
handwriting,  the  king  returned  the  document  to  Baron  von 
Hardenberg. 


15 


220 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


‘‘Yon  brought  us  these  last  greetings  and  injunctions  of 
the  great  king,  and  it  is  therefore  but  just  and  proper  that 
you,  as  the  representative  of  the  duke,  should  make  us  ac- 
quainted with  the  contents  of  the  will.  I authorize  you  to 
read  it  aloud.  Seat  yourself  at  that  table  between  my  two 
ministers.  And  now  read.” 

Count  von  Hardenberg  spread  the  document  out  on  the 
table,  and  commenced  to  read  in  a loud  and  sonorous  voice, 
as  follows : 

“Life  is  but  a fleeting  transition  from  birth  to  death. 
Man’s  destiny  is  to  labor  for  the  welfare  of  society,  of  which 
he  is  a member,  during  this  brief  period.  Since  the  duty  of 
managing  the  affairs  of  state  first  devolved  upon  me,  I have 
endeavored,  with  all  the  powers  given  me  by  Nature,  to  make 
the  state  which  I had  the  honor  to  govern  happy  and  prosper- 
ous. I have  caused  justice  to  be  administered,  I have  brought 
order  and  exactitude  into  the  finances,  and  I have  introduced 
that  discipline  into  the  army,  which  makes  it  superior  to  the 
other  troops  of  Europe.  After  having  done  my  duty  to  the 
state,  in  this  manner,  it  would  be  a subject  of  unceasing  self- 
reproach,  if  I neglected  that  which  concerns  my  family. 
Therefore,  in  order  to  avoid  the  dissensions  which  might  arise 
among  the  members  of  my  family  in  regard  to  the  inheritance, 
I herewith  declare  to  them  this  my  last  will  and  testament  : 

“ (1.)  I willingly,  and  without  regret,  return  the  breath  of 
life  which  animates  me  to  beneficent  Nature,  which  honored 
me  with  its  bestowal,  and  this  body  to  the  elements  of  which 
it  is  composed.  I have  lived  a philosopher,  and  I desire  to 
be  buried  as  such,  without  pomp,  show,  or  splendor.  I desire 
neither  to  be  dissected  nor  embalmed.  I desire  to  be  buried 
in  Sans-Souci,  on  the  terrace  and  in  the  vault  which  I have 
had  prepared  for  the  reception  of  my  body.  In  this  manner 
the  Prince  of  Nassau  was  laid  to  rest  in  a wood  near  Cleve. 
Should  I die  in  time  of  war,  or  on  a journey,  my  body  must 
be  conveyed  to  the  most  convenient  place,  and  afterwards  to 
Sans-Souci  in  the  winter,  and  deposited  as  above  directed. 


THE  WILL. 


22i 

“ (2.)  I bequeath  to  my  dear  nephew,  Frederick  William, 
my  successor  to  the  crown,  the  kingdom  of  Prussia,  provinces, 
states,  castles,  fortifications,  places,  munitions,  and  arsenals, 
lands  which  are  mine  by  right  of  conquest  or  inheritance,  all 
the  crown  jewels  which  are  in  the  hands  of  the  queen,  my 
wife,  the  gold  and  silver  plate  in  Berlin,  my  villas,  libraries, 
collections  of  medals,  picture  galleries,  gardens,  etc.,  etc. 
Moreover,  I leave  him  the  state  treasure  as  he  may  find  it  at 
my  death,  in  trust.  It  belongs  to  the  state,  and  must  only  be 
used  in  defending  or  assisting  the  people. 

“ (3.)  If  death  compels  me  to  leave  unpaid  some  small  debts, 
my  nephew  shall  pay  them.  Such  is  my  will. 

“ (4.)  I bequeath  to  the  queen,  my  wife,  the  revenue  she 
now  draws,  with  the  addition  of  ten  thousand  dollars  per 
annum,  two  tuns  of  wine  each  year,  free  wood,  and  game  for 
her  table.  Under  this  condition,  the  queen  has  consented  to 
make  my  nephew  her  heir.  Moreover,  as  there  is  no  suitable 
dwelling  that  can  be  set  apart  as  her  residence,  I content  my- 
self with  mentioning,  for  form’s  sake,  Stettin  as  an  appro- 
priate place.  At  the  same  time,  I request  of  my  nephew  that 
he  hold  suitable  lodgings  in  readiness  for  her  in  the  palace  in 
Berlin,  and  that  he  show  a proper  consideration  for  the  widow 
of  his  uncle,  and  for  a princess  whose  virtue  is  above  all 
reproach. 

(5.)  And  now,  we  come  to  the  Allodial  estate.  I have 
never  been  either  miserly  or  rich,  nor  have  I ever  had  much 
to  dispose  of.  I have  considered  the  state  revenues  as  the 
ark  of  the  covenant,  which  none  but  consecrated  hands  might 
touch.  I have  never  appropriated  the  public  revenues  to  my 
own  use.  My  own  expenses  have  never  exceeded  the  sum  of 
two  hundred  thousand  dollars ; and  my  administration  leaves 
me  in  perfect  quietude  of  conscience,  and  I do  not  fear  to 
give  the  public  a strict  account  of  it. 

“ (6.)  I appoint  my  nephew  Frederick  William  residuary 
legatee  of  my  Allodial  estate,  after  having  paid  out  the  follow- 
ing legacies.'' 


222 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


After  the  king,  in  twenty-four  additional  clauses,  had 
named  a legacy  for  all  of  his  relatives,  either  in  money,  jewels, 
or  something  else,  and  after  he  had  determined  the  pensions 
for  the  invalid  officers  and  soldiers  of  his  army,  and  for  his 
servants,  the  testament  continued : 

‘‘  I recommend  to  my  successor  that  he  honor  and  esteem 
his  blood,  in  the  persons  of  his  uncles,  aunts,  and  all  other 
relatives.  Accident,  which  determines  the  destiny  of  man, 
also  regulates  the  succession.  But  the  one,  because  he  be- 
comes king,  is  no  better  than  the  others.  I,  therefore,  rec- 
ommend to  all  my  relatives  that  they  live  in  a good  under- 
standing with  each  other;  and  that  they,  if  it  be  necessary, 
sacrifice  their  personal  interests  to  the  welfare  of  the  father- 
land  and  the  advantage  of  the  state. 

“ My  last  wishes  when  I die  will  be  for  the  happiness  of 
this  kingdom.  May  it  ever  be  governed  with  justice,  wis- 
dom, and  strength ! May  it  be  the  happiest  of  states,  through 
the  mildness  of  its  laws ; may  its  administration  in  respect  to 
finance  ever  be  good  and  just;  may  it  ever  be  most  gallantly 
defended  by  an  army  that  breathes  only  for  honor  and  fair  re- 
nown ; and  may  it  last  and  flourish  to  the  end  of  all  centuries 

‘‘Amen!  amen!”  exclaimed  the  king,  folding  his  hands 
piously,  when  Baron  von  Hardenberg  had  concluded.  “ Amen ! 
The  intentions  of  my  great  and  exalted  uncle  shall  be  carried 
out  in  all  things ! God  bless  Prussia,  and  give  me  strength 
to  govern  it  and  make  it  happy ! I thank  you,  baron,  and 
promise  myself  the  pleasure  of  a confidential  interview  with 
you  to-morrow  morning  before  you  take  your  departure.” 

His  ministers  having  retired  with  the  ambassador,  in  com- 
pliance with  an  intimation  from  the  king  that  they  might  do 
so,  Frederick  William  now  turned  with  a gracious  and  genial 
smile  to  Princess  Amelia  and  her  two  brothers,  who,  like  the 
king,  had  arisen  from  their  seats. 

“ My  exalted  uncle  particularly  recommended  that  I should 
consider  the  welfare  of  my  uncles  and  aunts,”  said  Frederick. 
“ I assure  you,  however,  that  this  recommendation  was  un- 


THE  WILL. 


223 


necessary ; without  it,  I would  have  been  only  too  happy  to 
contribute  to  your  happiness  and  welfare,  to  the  extent  of  my 
ability.  I beg  each  of  you,  therefore,  to  prefer  some  request, 
the  gratification  of  which  will  serve  as  a remembrance  of  this 
solemn  occasion. — Speak,  Prince  Henry;  speak,  my  dear 
uncle;  name  some  favor  that  I can  grant.’' 

The  prince  started,  and  a glowing  color  flitted  over  the 
countenance  that  was  an  exact  copy  of  the  deceased  king’s. 
The  word  “ favor,”  which  Frederick’s  smiling  lips  had  uttered, 
pierced  the  prince’s  heart  like  a poisoned  arrow. 

Sire,”  said  he,  sharply,  “ I crave  no  favor  whatever  at  your 
hands,  unless  it  might  be  considered  a favor  that  my  rights 
be  protected,  and  justice  be  shown  me,  in  the  matter  of  my 
claims  to  a certain  succession.” 

“To  exercise  justice  is  no  favor,  but  a duty,”  replied  the 
king,  mildly;  “and  my  dear  uncle  Henry  will  certainly  be 
protected  in  all  his  rightful  claims.” 

“ In  my  claims  to  the  succession  in  the  Margraviate 
Schwedt?”  inquired  Prince  Henry,  hurriedly;  and  his  eyes, 
which  were  large,  luminous,  and  keen,  like  Frederick’s,  fas- 
tened a piercing  glance  on  his  nephew’s  countenance. 

Frederick  William  shrugged  his  shoulders.  “That  is  a 
political  question,  which  must  be  decided  in  a ministerial 
council,  and  not  in  a family  conference.” 

“That  is  to  say,  in  other  words,”  screeched  Amelia,  with 
mocking  laughter,  “ Prince  Henry  will  always  belong  to  the 
dear  family,  but  never  to  the  number  of  the  king’s  ministers 
and  councillors.” 

The  king,  actuated  perhaps  by  a desire  to  turn  the  conver- 
sation, now  addressed  Prince  Ferdinand : “ And  you,  my  dear 
uncle,  have  you  no  particular  wish  to  impart?” 

The  prince  smiled.  “ I am  not  ambitious,  and  my  finances 
are  fortunately  in  good  order.  I recommend  myself  and 
family  to  the  king’s  good-will.  I should  be  particularly 
pleased  if  my  oldest  son  Louis  could  be  honored  with  the  pro- 
tection of  his  royal  uncle.” 


224 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


‘'He  shall  stand  on  the  same  footing  with  my  son/*  said 
the  king.  “ I desire  him  to  be  the  friend  and  companion  of 
my  son  Frederick  William;  and  I trust  that  he  will  infuse 
some  of  his  spirit  and  fire  into  the  latter.  The  young  princes 
are  made  to  complete  each  other,  and  I shall  be  glad  to  see 
them  become  close  friends. — And  now,  my  dear  aunt  and 
princess,’*  continued  the  king,  as  he  turned  to  Amelia,  “will 
you  be  kind  enough  to  name  your  wishes.” 

The  princess  shrugged  her  shoulders.  “ I am  not  ambitious, 
like  brother  Henry,  and  I have  no  children  to  care  for,  like 
brother  Ferdinand.  My  own  wants  are  few,  and  I am  not 
fond  enough  of  mankind  to  desire  to  collect  riches  in  order 
that  I may  fill  empty  pockets  and  feast  those  who  are  in  want. 
Life  has  not  been  a bed  of  roses  for  me,  why  should  I make  it 
pleasant  for  others?  There  is  but  one  I desire  to  make 
happy;  he,  like  myself,  has  lived  through  long  years  of  mis- 
ery, and  can  sing  a mournful  song  of  the  hard-heartedness 
and  cruelty  of  mankind.  Sire,  I crave  nothing  for  myself, 
but  I crave  a ray  of  sunshine  for  him  who  was  buried  in  the 
darkness  of  a prison,  who  was  robbed  of  his  sun  for  so  many 
long  years.  I crave  for  an  old  man  the  ray  of  happiness  of 
which  his  youth  and  manhood  were  wickedly  deprived.  Sire, 
in  my  opinion,  there  is  but  one  shadow  on  the  memory  of  my 
exalted  brother.  This  shadow  is  Frederick  Trenck.*  Let 
justice  prevail.  Restore  to  Von  Trenck  the  estates  of  which 
he  was  unjustly  deprived;  restore  the  title  and  military  rank 
of  which  he  was  robbed.  Sire,  do  this,  and  I,  whom  misery 
has  made  a bad  fairy,  will  hereafter  be  nothing  more  than  a 
good-natured  and  withered  old  mummy,  who  will  fold  her 
hands  and  pray  with  her  last  breath  for  the  good  and  gener- 
ous king  who  made  Frederick  von  Trenck  happy.” 

“ It  shall  be  as  my  dear  aunt  desires,”  said  the  king,  with 
emotion.  “ Frederick  von  Trenck  shall  be  put  in  possession  of 
his  estates,  and  restored  to  liis  military  and  civic  honors.  We 

* Frederick  von  Tnmck  Huffered  lonp:  years  of  imprisonment  on  Princess  Amelia’s 
account.— See  “ Frederick  the  Great  and  his  Family,”  by  L.  Mühlbach. 


THE  WILL. 


225 


will  also  invite  him  to  our  court,  and  he  shall  not  have  to  fear 
being  again  thrown  into  the  gloomy  dungeons  of  Magdeburg, 
although  Princess  Amelia  should  smile  graciously  upon  him.’’ 

The  princess  distorted  the  poor  old  face,  which  was  so  com- 
pletely disfigured  with  scars,  in  an  attempt  at  a smile,  which 
was  only  a grimace;  and  she  was  herself  unaware  that  the  veil 
which  had  suddenly  dimmed  her  eyes  was  a tear.  For  long 
years  she  had  neither  wept  nor  smiled,  and  shed  tears  to-day 
for  the  first  time  again.  For  the  first  time  in  many  years  she 
thanked  God,  on  retiring,  for  having  been  permitted  to  see 
the  light  of  this  day.  She  no  longer  desired  to  die,  but 
prayed  that  she  might  live  until  she  had  seen  Frederick  von 
Trenck — until  she  had  received  his  forgiveness  for  the  misery 
she  had  caused  him!  To-day,  for  the  first  time,  the  em- 
bittered mind  of  the  princess  was  touched  with  a feeling  of 
thankfulness  and  joy.  And  it  came  from  the  bottom  of  her 
heart,  when  she  said  to  Frederick  William,  on  taking  leave 
of  him  after  the  reading  of  the  will : “ I wish  I were  not  a 

bad,  but  rather  a good  fairy,  for  I could  then  give  you  the  re- 
ceipt for  making  your  people  and  yourself  happy!” 

The  king  smiled  at  this.  He  had  that  receipt  already! 
He  had  received  it  in  the  elixir  of  life  which  Cagliostro  had 
given  him.  These  drops  were  the  receipt  for  his  personal 
happiness;  and,  as  for  making  the  people  happy,  Bischofs- 
werder and  Wöllner  must  know  the  receipts  necessary  to  effect 
that  object.  In  their  hands  the  king  will  confidently  place 
the  helm  of  state.  They  are  the  favorites  of  the  Invisible 
Fathers;  the  chosen,  the  powerful.  And  they  shall  rule 
Prussia,  they,  the  Eosicrucians ! 

This  thought  filled  the  king’s  heart  with  joy,  but  it  filled 
the  hearts  of  the  opponents  of  the  pious  brotherhood,  of  the 
enemies  of  Bischof swerder  and  Wöllner,  with  dismay  and  anx- 
iety. And  the  number  of  their  enemies  was  great,  and  many 
of  them  were  men  of  high  rank  and  standing. 

There  was  also  at  the  court  a party  which  entertained  bitter 
but  secret  enmity  to  the  Eosicrucians. 


226 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

LEUCHSENRING. 

At  the  head  of  the  opposition  party  at  court  stood  Franz 
Michael  Leuchsenring,  the  prince  royal’s  instructor,  Goethe’s 
friend,  and  a member  of  the  former  Hain  association.  He 
had  been  called  to  Berlin  by  Frederick  the  Great  to  assume 
the  position  of  French  tutor  to  the  future  King  of  Prussia, 
and  impart  to  him  a thorough  knowledge  of  French  literature. 

Baron  von  Hardenberg  sought  out  the  tutor,  whom  he  had 
known  and  loved  for  many  years,  on  the  morning  after  the 
reading  of  the  will.  The  meeting  of  these  long-separated 
friends  was  hearty  and  cordial,  and  yet  the  keen  glance  of  the 
ambassador  did  not  fail  to  detect  the  cloud  which  rested  on 
Leuchsenring’s  countenance.  After  they  had  shaken  hands, 
and  exchanged  a few  questions  and  remarks  relative  to  each 
other’s  health  and  circumstances,  the  baron  raised  his  delicate 
white  hand  and  pointed  to  Leuchsenring’s  brow. 

“ I see  a shadow  there,”  said  he,  smiling;  “a  shadow  which 
I never  before  observed  on  my  friend’s  forehead.  Is  the 
handsome  Leuchsenring  no  longer  the  favorite  of  the  ladies, 
and  consequently  of  the  muses  also?  Or  have  we  again  some 
detestable  rival,  who  dares  to  contend  with  you  for  a fair 
maid’s  favor?  I know  what  that  is;  I saw  you  in  the  role  of 
Orlando  Furioso  more  than  once,  when  we  were  together  in 
the  Elysian  Fields  of  Naples,  where  we  first  met  and  joined 
hands  in  friendship.  My  friend,  why  did  we  not  remain  in 
bella  Italia!  Why  has  the  prose  of  life  sobered  us  down,  and 
made  of  you  the  teacher,  and  of  me  the  servant  of  a prince ! — 
But  enough  of  this;  and  now  answer  this  question:  Who  is 
the  rival?  Am  I to  be  your  second  here  in  Berlin,  as  I was 
on  three  occasions  in  Naples?” 

Leuchsenring  smiled : “ I observe,  with  pleasure,  my  dear 
baron,  that  your  ministerial  rank  has  not  changed  you.  You 


LEUCHSENRING. 


227 


are  still  the  same  merry,  thoughtless  cavalier ; while  I,  really, 
I can  no  longer  deny  it,  have  become  a misanthrope.  With 
me  gayety  and  love  are  things  of  the  past;  and,  unfortunately, 
women  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  shadow  which  your  keen 
glance  detected.'' 

“And  more  unfortunately  still,  you  have  become  a politi- 
cian," exclaimed  the  baron,  smiling.  “ What  I have  heard  is 
then  true ; you  no  longer  write  love-letters,  but  occupy  your- 
self with  learned  treatises.  You  have  joined  a political  party?" 

“ It  is  true,"  said  Leuchsenring,  emphatically.  “ I am  filled 
with  anger  and  hatred  when  I see  these  advocates  of  darkness, 
that  is,  these  Eosicrucians,  or,  in  other  words,  these  Jesuits, 
attempting  to  cast  their  vast  tissue  of  falsehood  over  mankind. 
I feel  it  to  be  my  duty  to  tear  asunder  its  meshes  and  lay  bare 
the  toils  in  which  they  hoped  to  involve  mankind." 

“Bravo,  bravo!"  cried  Hardenberg.  “I  am  delighted  to 
hear  you  declare  your  views  in  this  manner.  I now  perceive 
that  you  are  in  earnest.  And  I will  give  you  a proof  of  my 
confidence  by  asking  your  advice  in  my  personal  affairs. 
King  Frederic':  William  has  honored  me  with  an  audience, 
and  I have  jus  left  his  presence.  It  seems  his  majesty  has 
taken  a fancy  to  me ; some  effeminate  feature  in  my  counte- 
nance has  found  the  highest  appreciation.  To  be  brief,  the 
king  has  graciously  proposed  to  me  to  enter  his  service ; he 
offers  me  a ministerial  position." 

“And  what  reply  did  you  make  to  this  proposition?"  asked 
Leuchsenring,  eagerly. 

“ I begged  some  little  time  for  consideration.  I was  not 
sufficiently  acquainted  with  the  political  phase,  and  I desired 
to  discuss  the  matter  with  you,  my  friend,  before  coming  to  a 
decision.  And  now,  give  me  your  opinion.  Shall  I accept?" 

“ First  tell  me  what  you  are,  and  then  I will  reply.  Tell 
me  whether  you  are  a Eosicrucian,  that  is,  a Jesuit,  or 
whether  you  have  remained  a faithful  brother  of  our  society? 
Give  me  your  hand,  let  me  touch  it  with  the  secret  sign ; and 
now  tell  me  if  you  are  still  a brother." 


228 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


‘‘I  am,”  said  Hardenberg,  his  Jovial  face  assuming  an 
earnest  expression,  and  he  touched  Leuchsenring’s  extended 
hand  in  a peculiar  manner.  “ The  grasp  of  this  hand  pro- 
claims to  you  that  I have  remained  true  to  the  society ; and 
that  I am  still  a brother  of  the  order  and  a zealous  freemason.” 

‘‘  Thanks  be  to  God  that  you  are  my  friend!”  cried  Leuch- 
senring.  ‘‘  Then  you  are  with  me,  with  those  who  are  pre- 
paring for  the  future,  and  erecting  a barrier  in  the  minds  of 
mankind  to  the  present  tide  of  evil.  And  now  I will  answer 
your  question.  Do  not  accept  the  offer  which  has  been  made 
you,  but  save  yourself  for  the  future,  for  the  coming  gener- 
ation. Gloomy  days  are  in  store  for  Prussia,  and  the  good 
genius  of  the  German  fatherland  must  veil  its  head  and  weep 
over  the  impending  horrors.  The  demons  of  darkness  are 
at  work  in  the  land.  Superstition,  hypocrisy,  Jesuitism,  and 
lasciviousness,  have  combined  to  fetter  the  understanding  and 
the  hearts  of  men.  A period  of  darkness  such  as  usually 
precedes  the  great  convulsions  and  epochs  of  history  will  soon 
come  for  Prussia.  Believe  me,  we  are  standing  on  a crater. 
The  royal  favorites  are  covering  it  with  flowei  . and  garlands; 
the  royal  Eosicrucians  are  administering  elix  .rs  and  wonder- 
working potions,  to  obscure  the  eye  and  shut  out  the  fearful 
vision.  They  are,  however,  not  arresting  the  progress  of  the 
chariot  of  fate,  but  are  urging  it  on  in  its  destructive  career. 
As  good  springs  from  evil,  so  will  freedom  spring  from  slav- 
ery. The  oppression  which  rulers  have  been  exercising  on 
their  subjects  tor  centuries,  will  now  bear  its  avenging  fruits. 
The  slaves  will  break  their  fetters,  and  make  freemen  of 
themselves.” 

‘‘Ah,  my  friend,”  exclaimed  Hardenberg,  shrugging  his 
shoulders;  “you  see  the  realization  of  unattainable  ideals; 
unfortunately,  I cannot  believe  in  it.  Tell  me,  by  what 
means  are  these  poor,  enslaved  nations  to  break  their  fetters 
and  make  freemen  of  themselves?” 

“ I will  tell  you,  and  make  your  soul  shudder.  The  slaves, 
the  down-trodden  nations,  will  free  themselves  by  the  fearful 


LEUCHSENRING. 


229 


means  of  revolution.  It  already  agitates  every  soul,  and 
throbs  in  every  heart.  The  time  of  peace  and  tranquillity  is 
at  end ; the  storm  no  longer  rages  in  the  heads  and  hearts  of 
poets  only,  but  in  every  human  heart.  The  thoughts  and 
songs  of  the  poets  have  pierced  the  heart  of  nations,  and 
fermented  a storm  that  will  soon  burst  forth ; as  it  sweeps 
along  it  will  destroy  the  old  and  build  up  the  new.  With  his 
‘Robbers,’  Schiller  hurled  the  firebrand  into  the  mind  of 
youth,  and  princes  and  rulers  are  feeding  and  nourishing  thf 
enkindled  fiame  with  the  trumpery  of  their  gold-glitterinj 
rags,  and  their  vices.  This  flame  will  blaze  up  until  it  be> 
comes  a mighty  conflagration.  The  vices  of  princes  are  the 
scourges  chosen  by  God,  to  chastise  the  nations,  in  order  that 
they  may  rise  up  from  the  dust,  and  that  slaves  may  become 
men ! Louis  the  Fifteenth  of  France,  with  all  his  crimes  and 
vices,  was  an  instrument  in  the  hands  of  the  Almighty.  And 
Marie  Antoinette,  with  her  love  of  pleasure,  her  frivolity,  and 
her  extravagance,  is  such  an  instrument,  as  is  also  Frederick 
William  of  Prussia,  with  all  his  thoughtlessness,  his  good- 
nature, and  his  indolence.  Even  this  hypocritical  generation 
of  vipers,  this  lying,  deceiving  brotherhood,  these  Eosicru- 
cians  and  Jesuits,  must  serve  God’s  purposes.  Falsehood  ex- 
ists only  to  make  truth  manifest;  and  bondage,  only  to 
promote  liberty.  Therefore  I will  not  complain,  although 
vice  should  be  triumphant  for  a while.  The  greater  the  suc- 
cess of  evil  now,  the  greater  the  triumph  of  good  hereafter. 
The  greater  the  number  of  Jesuits  who  execute  their  dark 
deeds  now,  the  greater  the  number  who  will  be  destroyed.'’ 

“ They  exist  only  in  your  imagination,  my  exalted  friend,” 
said  Hardenberg,  smiling.  “ There  are  not  any  Jesuits  in 
Prussia.” 

“They  are  everywhere,”  said  Leu chsenring,  interrupting 
him,  and  grasping  his  friend’s  arm  in  his  earnestness.  “ Yes, 
there  are  Jesuits.  They  go  about  with  us,  they  sit  with  us  at 
table,  they  grasp  our  hands  as  friends,  they  flatter  us  as  our 
admirers,  they  smile  on  us  in  the  persons  of  the  women  we 


230 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


love,  they  leave  no  means  untried  to  fetter  our  hearts  and 
understanding.  The  Rosicrucians,  what  are  they,  one  and 
all,  but  disguised  Jesuits!  They  wish  to  impose  Catholicism 
on  us,  and  drive  out  Protestantism.  They  wish  to  mystify  the 
mind,  and  make  the  soul  grovel  in  sin  and  vice,  from  which 
condition  the  victims  around  whom  they  have  woven  their 
toils  will  only  be  permitted  to  escape  by  flying  to  the  bosom 
of  the  Catholic  Church.  To  the  bosom  of  that  Church  which 
offers  an  asylum  to  all  restless  consciences,  and  dispenses 
blessings  and  forgiveness  for  all  vices  and  crimes.  For  this 
reason,  these  Rosicrucians  tempt  the  good-natured,  thought- 
less king  to  luxury  and  debauchery ; for  this  reason  they  ter- 
rify his  mind  with  apparitions  and  ghosts ! In  his  terror  he 
is  to  seek  and  find  safety  in  the  Catholic  Church ! I see 
through  their  disguise;  and  they  know  it.  For  this  reason, 
they  hate  me ; and  they  cry  out  against  me  because  I have 
exposed  their  wiles  and  stratagems,  and  proclaimed  that  these 
vile  Rosicrucians  are  Jesuits  in  disguise,  whose  object  is  the 
expansion  of  Catholicism  over  the  earth.  This  I proclaimed 
in  a treatise,  which  aroused  the  sleeping,  and  convinced  the 
doubting,  and  excited  the  wrath  of  the  Rosicrucians  against 
me.” 

‘‘I  have  heard  of  it,”  said  Hardenberg,  thoughtfully.  “I 
heard  of  your  having  hurled  a defiant  article  at  the  secret 
societies,  through  the  medium  of  the  ‘ Berlin  Monthly  Maga- 
zine;’ * but,  unfortunately,  I could  never  obtain  a copy.” 

‘‘  That  I can  readily  believe,”  said  Leuchsenring,  laughing; 
‘‘  the  dear  Rosicrucians  bought  up  the  whole  edition  of  the 
monthly  magazine.  When  the  new  one  is  published,  they  will 
buy  that  up,  too,  in  order  to  suppress  the  truth.  But  they 
will  not  succeed.  Truth  is  mighty,  and  will  prevail;  and  we 
freemasons  and  brothers  of  the  order  of  the  Illuminati,  will 
help  to  make  truth  victorious.  We  freemasons  are  the  cham- 
pions of  freedom  and  enlightenment.  Many  of  the  most  in- 

* This  article  appeared  in  the  August  number  of  1786,  and  created  a great  sensa- 
tion in  all  classes  of  society. 


LEUCHSENRING. 


231 


fluential  and  distinguished  men  of  Berlin  have  joined  our 
order,  and  are  battling  with  us  against  the  advocates  of  dark- 
ness and  ignorance — against  the  Jesuits  and  Eosicrucians. 
We  call  ourselves  Illuminati,  because  we  intend  to  illumine 
the  darkness  of  the  Eosicrucians,  and  manifest  truth,  in  an- 
nihilating falsehood ! My  friend,  the  struggle  for  which  we 
are  preparing  will  be  a hard  one,  for  the  number  of  Eosicru- 
cians and  Jesuits  is  vast,  and  a king  is  their  protector.  The 
number  of  the  Illuminati  is  comparatively  small ; and  only  the 
kings  of  intellect  and  science,  not,  however,  of  power  and 
wealth,  belong  to  our  brotherhood.  But  we  shall  overthrow 
the  Jesuits,  nevertheless.  We  stand  on  the  watch-tower  of 
Prussia,  and  our  Protestant  watchword  is  Luther’s  word,  ‘The 
Word  they  shall  not  touch.’  ” 

“ Well  said,  my  gallant  friend,''  cried  Hardenberg.  “ Your 
ardor  inspires  me,  your  enthusiasm  is  contagious.  I will  take 
part  in  this  great  and  noble  struggle.  Admit  me  into  your 
order!" 

“You  shall  become  one  of  us!  A meeting  of  our  brother- 
hood takes  place  this  evening  at  the  house  of  our  chieftain 
Nicolai.  You  must  accompany  me,  and  I will  see  that  you 
are  admitted." 

“ And  then,  when  I have  become  a member  of  your  order, 
^nd  am  enrolled  among  the  number  of  the  enemies  of  the  Jes- 
(lits  and  Eosicrucians,  you  will  no  doubt  consider  it  advisable 
for  me  to  accept  the  king’s  proposition?" 

“No,  my  friend,  I cannot  approve  of  it;  I cannot  advise 
you  to  do  so." 

“ How?  You  do  not  desire  me  to  remain  and  fight  at  your 
side?  You  despise  my  assistance?" 

“ I do  not  despise  your  assistance ; I only  wish  to  spare  you 
for  better  times.  I have  a high  opinion  of  your  capacities, 
and  it  would  be  a pity  if  your  usefulness  should  be  prematurely 
destroyed.  But  this  would  be  the  case  if  you  remained  here 
at  present.  The  Eosicrucians  are  not  only  mighty,  but  are 
also  cunning.  They  would  soon  recognize  an  enemy  in  the 


232 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


Minister  of  State,  and  would  not  be  slow  in  relieving  him  of 
his  office  and  power.  They  would  pursue  the  same  course 
with  you  that  they  have  pursued  with  me.” 

‘‘What  course  have  they  pursued  with  you?  In  what  can 
the  instructor  of  the  prince  royal  have  offended — the  instruc- 
tor appointed  by  Frederick  the  Great?  What  harm  can  the 
Eosicrucians  do  him?” 

Leuchsenring  took  up  an  open  letter  which  lay  on  the 
writing-desk,  and  smiled  as  he  handed  it  to  Hardenberg. 
“Eead  this,”  said  he,  “it  will  answer  your  question.” 

Hardenberg  glanced  quickly  over  the  few  lines  which  the 
letter  contained,  and  then  let  it  fall  on  the  table  again  with 
an  air  of  dejection. 

“ Dismissed !”  he  murmured.  “ The  body  of  the  late  king  is 
hardly  under  ground,  and  they  already  dare  to  disregard  his 
will,  and  send  you  your  dismissal.” 

“ They  go  further,”  said  Leuchsenring,  angrily.  “ They  not 
only  dismiss  me,  but  what  is  still  worse,  they  have  appointed 
a Eosicrucian  to  fill  my  position.  General  Count  Brühl  has 
been  selected  to  give  the  finishing  touch  to  the  education  of 
the  young  prince.” 

“And  you  will  now  leave  Berlin,  I suppose?”  said  Harden- 
berg. “Well,  then,  my  friend,  I make  you  a proposition. 
You  do  not  desire  me  to  remain  here;  I now  propose  to  you 
to  accompany  me  to  Brunswick.  Save  yourself  and  your 
ability  for  better  times,  save  yourself  for  the  future!” 

“No,  I will  remain,”  cried  Leuchsenring,  with  determina- 
tion. “ I will  not  afford  the  Eosicrucians  the  pleasure  of  see- 
ing me  desert  my  post ; I will  defend  it  to  the  last  drop  of  my 
blood.  I will  remain,  and  the  Jesuits  and  Eosicrucians  shall 
ever  find  in  me  a watchful  and  relentless  enemy.  All  those 
brave  men  to  whom  God  has  given  the  sword  of  intellect,  will 
battle  at  my  side.  The  Eosicrucians  will  bring  gloom  and 
darkness  over  Prussia,  but  we,  the  Illuminati,  will  dissipate 
this  darkness.  The  vicious  and  the  weak  belong  to  the 
former,  but  the  virtuous  and  strong,  and  the  youth  of  the 


LEUCHSENRING. 


233 


nation,  will  join  the  ranks  of  the  Illuminati.  Oh,  my  friend, 
this  will  be  a spirit^warfare,  protracted  beyond  death,  like  the 
struggles  of  the  grim  Huns.  The  spirits  of  falsehood  must, 
however,  eventually  succumb  to  the  heavenly  might  of  truth ; 
and  darkness  must,  at  last,  yield  to  light ! This  is  my  hope, 
this  is  my  banner  of  faith ; and  therefore  do  I remain  here  in 
defiance  of  my  enemies,  the  Eosicrucians.  This  struggle,  this 
spirit-warfare,  is  my  delight — it  excites,  elevates,  and  re- 
freshes me.  But  when  the  victory  is  ours,  when  the  new  era 
begins,  when  the  old  has  been  torn  down,  and  the  new  Prussia 
is  to  be  built  up,  then  your  time  will  come,  my  friend ; you 
shall  be  the  architect  selected  to  erect  this  stately  edifice. 
For  the  dark  days  of  the  Eosicrucians  and  King  Frederick 
William,  your  services  are  not  available.  But  after  these  will 
come  the  bright  days  of  the  young  king,  and  at  his  side  you 
shall  stand  as  friend  and  councillor ! For,  believe  me.  King 
Frederick  William  the  Second  will  only  pass  over  the  horizon 
of  Prussia,  and  darken  the  existence  of  the  people,  like  a 
storm-cloud,  with  its  thunder  and  lightning.  But  cloud  and 
darkness  will  be  dissipated,  and  after  this,  day  will  dawn 
again,  and  the  sun  will  once  more  shine.  You  have  come  to 
Berlin  to  see  Prussia’s  unhappiness,  but  you  shall  now  see 
something  else.  I will  show  you  Prussia’s  hope,  and  Prussia’s 
future! — Come!’" 

He  took  his  friend’s  arm  and  led  him  to  the  window,  which 
commanded  a fine  view  of  the  adjoining  garden.  It  was  onlj 
a plain  garden,  with  walks  of  yellow  sand,  and  beds  of  or 
dinary  flowers.  A bench  stood  under  an  apple-tree,  covere^ 
with  fruit,  on  the  main  walk,  and  between  two  flower-beds, 
On  this  bench,  two  boys,  or  rather  two  youths,  were  sitting^ 
attired  in  plain,  civil  dress.  The  one  was  very  handsome, 
and  well-made ; his  large,  bright  eyes  were  turned  upward 
the  loud  tones  of  his  voice  could  be  heard  at  the  window,  ank 
his  animated  gestures  seemed  to  indicate  that  he  was  reciting 
some  poem,  and  was  carried  away  vPh  enthusiasm.  The 
other,  a tall  youth  of  sixteen,  witjb  sofi*,  hluo  eyes,  the 


234 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


mild  countenance,  and  good-natured  expression,  was  listening 
attentively  to  his  companion’s  declamation. 

It  was  the  latter  whom  Leuchsenring  pointed  out  to  his 
friend.  ‘‘See,''  said  he,  “that  is  the  future  King  of  Prussia, 
King  Frederick  William  the  Third,  that  is  to  be.  At  his  side 
you  are  to  stand  as  councillor ; and  he  will  need  your  advice 
and  assistance.  He  will  reap  the  bitter  harvest  which  will 
spring  from  the  seed  the  Jesuits  and  Eosicrucians  are  now 
sowing.  Save  yourself  for  Frederick  William  the  Third, 
Baron  Hardenberg,  and  do  not  waste  your  talents  and  ener- 
gies in  the  unfruitful  service  of  Frederick  William  the 
Second." 

“ The  one  you  point  out,  the  one  with  the  fair  hair,  and 
the  mild,  diffident  expression,  is  then  the  Prince  Eoyal  of 
Prussia.  I wish  you  had  shown  me  the  other,  that  handsome 
lad,  that  youthful  Apollo,  with  the  proud  smile  and  piercing 
eye.  I wish  he  were  the  future  King  of  Prussia." 

“ That  is  Prince  Louis,  the  present  king’s  nephew.  You 
are  right,  he  looks  like  a youthful  Apollo.  If  he  were  the 
future  king,  he  would  either  lift  Prussia  up  to  the  skies,  or 
else  hurl  it  into  an  abyss,  for  he  is  a genius,  and  he  will  not 
tread  the  beaten  track  of  life.  No,  it  is  better  that  his  gen- 
tle young  friend  should  some  day  wear  the  crown  of  Prussia. 
They  have  increased  his  natural  timidity  by  severe  treatment. 
He  has  no  confidence  in  himself,  but  he  has  good,  strong 
sense  and  an  honest  heart,  and  these  qualities  are  of  more 
importance  for  a king  than  genius  and  enthusiasm.  I do  not 
know  why  it  is,  my  friend,  but  I love  this  poor,  reserved  boy, 
who  has  suffered  and  endured  so  much  in  his  youth.  I love 
this  prince,  who  has  so  warm  a heart,  but  can  never  find 
words  to  express  his  feelings.  I pity  him,  for  I know  that 
his  youthful  heart  is  burdened  with  a secret  sorrow.  I have 
divined  the  cause,  in  an  occasional  word  which  escapes  his  lips 
unawares,  and  in  his  manner  at  times.  It  is  the  sorrow  of  an 
affectionate  and  tender-hearted  son,  who  wishes  to  love  and 
esteem  his  father,  but  dares  not  look  at  him,  for  fear  of  see- 


LEUCHSENRING. 


235 


ing  the  spots  and  shadows  which  darken  that  father’s  coun- 
tenance. 

Poor,  poor  lad!’'  said  Hardenberg,  moved  with  sympathy. 
“ So  young,  and  yet  such  bitter  experience ! But,  perhaps, 
it  is  well  that  such  should  be  the  case ; if  he  has  received  the 
baptism  of  tears,  and  has  been  anointed  with  affliction,  he  may 
become  a king  by  the  grace  of  God ! I will  do  as  you  say, 
Leuchsenring ; I will  save  myself  for  the  future,  and,  if  such 
be  the  will  of  God,  I will  one  day  serve  your  young  king  of 
the  future.” 

And  something  tells  me  that  God  will  permit  you  to  do 
so,”  cried  Leuchsenring,  joyously.  “It  may  be  that  I will 
not  live  to  see  the  day.  My  enemies,  the  Eosicrucians,  may 
have  destroyed,  or  the  storm -wind  of  the  revolution  have 
swept  me  away  by  that  time ; but  you  will  remain,  and  at 
some  future  day  you  will  remember  the  hour  in  which  I 
showed  you  the  young  prince  royal,  Frederick  William  the 
Third.  He  is  the  future  of  Prussia,  and,  in  the  dark  day 
which  is  now  dawning,  we  are  in  sore  need  of  a guiding  light. 
Fix  your  eye  on  the  Prince  Eoyal  of  Prussia,  and  on  his  genial 
friend.  Prince  Louis  Ferdinand!” 


BOOK  III 


CHAPTEE  I. 

SCHILLER  IK  DRESDEK. 

That  is  false,  I say;  false!”  cried  Schiller,  with  glowing 
cheeks  and  sparkling  eyes,  as  he  walked  to  and  fro  in  his  lit- 
tle room.  “ It  is  all  slander,  vile  slander!” 

The  two  friends,  the  young  councillor  of  the  consistory, 
Körner,  and  the  bookseller,  Göschen,  stood  together  in  the 
window  recess,  gazing  sadly  and  sympathetically  at  the  poet, 
who  rushed  to  and  fro,  almost  breathless  with  rage,  hurling 
an  angry  glance  at  his  friends,  whenever  he  approached  them. 

Suddenly  he  stopped,  and  fastened  his  gaze  on  them,  in- 
tently. ‘‘Why  do  you  not  reply?”  asked  he,  in  loud  and 
wrathful  tones.  “ Why  do  you  allow  me  to  accuse  you  both 
of  a falsehood,  without  even  attempting  to  justify  yourselves?” 

“Because  we  wish  to  give  your  just  anger  time  to  expend 
itself,”  said  Körner,  in  his  soft,  mild  voice.  “To  our  own 
great  sorrow  we  have  been  compelled  to  wound  our  friend’s 
feelings,  and  it  is  quite  natural  that  this  wound  should  smart.” 

“ And  we  do  not  justify  ourselves  against  these  reproaches, 
because  they  do  not  apply  to  us,  ” added  Göschen,  “ and  be- 
cause they  are  only  the  utterance  of  your  just  indignation. 
Believe  me,  my  friend,  we  would  gladly  have  spared  you  this 
hour,  but  our  friendship  was  greater  than  our  pity.” 

“Yes,  yes,  the  old  story,”  cried  Schiller,  with  mocking 
laughter.  “ Out  of  friendship,  you  are  pitiless;  out  of  friend- 
ship you  give  the  death-blow  to  my  heart ! And  what  the 
most  cruel  enemy  would  hardly  have  the  courage  to  whisper 
in  my  ear,  merciful  friendship  boldly  declares!’' 


SCHILLER  IN  DRESDEN. 


237 


“ Schiller,  you  are  deceived ! Schiller,  the  girl  you  love  is 
a cold-hearted  coquette,  who  does  not  love  you,  who  only 
keeps  you  in  leading-strings,  in  order  to  extort  presents  from 
you,  and  to  be  able  to  say  that  a poet  adores  her!’' 

But  I will  give  no  credit  to  such  unworthy  insinuations ! 
My  love  shall  not  be  regarded  as  a mere  mockery.  You  shall 
not  have  the  pitiful  triumph  of  tearing  me  from  the  girl  I 
love.  I declare  to  you  and  the  whole  world,  I love  her,  I love 
the  beautiful,  the  admired,  the  courted  Marie  von  Arnim. 
To  her  belong  my  thoughts,  my  wishes,  and  my  hopes.  She 
is  my  ideal  of  beauty,  of  youth,  and  of  female  loveliness.  I 
exult  in  this  love ; it  will  raise  me  from  the  dust  of  earth  to 
the  sphere  of  the  eternal  and  immortal  gods!” 

‘‘My  poor  friend!”  sighed  Körner,  “like  your  love,  the 
gods  only  exist  in  your  poetical  fancy.  Listen  to  reason, 
Schiller!” 

“Reason!”  cried  he,  stamping  the  floor,  wrathfully. 
“ That  means  the  dry  insipidity  of  every-day  life,  instead  of 
life’s  festival,  wreathed  with  flowers.  No,  I will  not  listen  to 
reason ; for  you  call  it  reason  to  consider  it  possible  that  the 
most  divine  creature  on  earth  could  be  a base  coquette!” 

“Now  you  go  too  far,  Schiller,”  said  Göschen,  eagerly,  “no 
one  made  such  grave  accusations  against  the  daughter.  We 
only  said  of  the  mother  that  she  misused  your  love  for  her 
daughter,  and  that  she  would  never  consent  to  your  union. 
We  said  that  the  beautiful  young  lady  was  aware  of  this,  and 
continued  to  receive  your  attentions,  although  she  knew  the 
gentleman  selected  by  her  mother  as  her  future  husband,  and 
would  Anally  consent  to  marry  him . As  friends,  we  conceived 
it  to  be  our  duty  to  tell  you  this,  in  order  that  you  might  no 
longer  be  deceived  in  your  noblest  impulses,  and  continue  to 
throw  away  your  love,  your  confidence,  and  your  money,  on 
unworthy  objects.” 

“ That  is  the  word,”  cried  Schiller,  with  mocking  laughter, 
“ now  you  have  uttered  the  right  word ! My  money,  or  rather 
your  money,  you  would  say!  You  tremble  for  your  vile 


238 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


dross!  Yon  made  me  advances,  and  Don  Carlos  is  not  yet 
completed.  You  now  fear  that  my  love  might  distract  my 
attention,  and  draw  me  from  my  work,  and  that  the  two  hun- 
dred dollars  which — 

‘‘Frederick  Schiller!’*  cried  Körner,  interrupting  him, 
while  Göschen  turned  away,  his  lips  trembling,  and  his  eyes 
filled  with  tears;  “Frederick  Schiller,  now  you  are  unjust; 
and  that,  a friend  must  not  be,  even  in  his  deepest  grief. 
Vile  dross  has  nothing  to  do  with  this  sacrifice  of  friendship, 
and  it  was  not  for  its  sake  that  we  undertook  the  thankless 
office  of  making  the  blind  see.  You  well  know  that  Göschen 
is  a noble  and  disinterested  friend,  who  rejoiced  in  being  per- 
mitted to  help  the  poet  of  Don  Carlos  out  of  his  difficulties, 
but  it  is,  of  course,  painful  to  him  to  see  the  loving,  confiding 
man,  squander  what  the  poet  earns.’’ 

“It  is  true,  it  is  true!”  cried  Schiller,  “I  am  unjust!  I 
reproach  you  instead  of  reproaching  myself,  and  myself  only. 
Oh,  my  friends,  forgive  these  utterances  of  my  anguish,  con- 
sider what  I endure!  You  are  both  so  happy;  you  have  all 
that  can  lend  a charm  to  life,  and  adorn  it.  You  are  wealthy, 
you  do  not  know  what  it  is  to  have  to  contend  with  want,  and 
to  struggle  for  existence,  nor  have  you  any  knowledge  of  that 
more  painful  struggle,  the  warfare  of  life  without  love,  with- 
out some  being  who  loves  you,  and  is  wholly  yours.  You,  my 
friends,  have  loved  and  loving  wives,  who  are  yours  with  every 
fibre  of  their  being.  You  have  also  well-appointed  house- 
holds, and  are  provided  with  all  that  is  requisite  to  enable  you 
to  exercise  a generous  hospitality.  But,  look  at  me,  the  soli- 
tary, homeless  beggar,  who  calls  nothing  on  earth  his  own 
but  that  spark  of  enthusiasm  which  burns  in  his  heart,  who 
must  flee  to  the  ideal,  in  order  to  escape  the  too  rude  grasp  of 
reality.  Why  must  I alone  rise  from  the  richly-laden  table 
of  life  with  unsatisfied  hunger?  Why  are  the  stars,  for  me, 
merely  candles  of  the  night,  that  give  me  light  in  my  labors, 
and  the  sun  only  an  economical  heating  apparatus,  to  which  I 
am  only  in  so  far  indebted  as  it  saves  me  expensive  fuel  for 


SCHILLER  IN  DRESDEN. 


239 


my  stove  in  winter.  Grant  me  my  portion  of  the  repast 
which  the  gods  have  prepared  for  all  mortals,  let  me  also  par- 
take of  the  golden  Hesperian  fruit.  My  friends,  have  pity 
on  the  poor  wanderer,  who  has  been  journeying  through  the 
desert  of  life,  and  would  now  recline  on  the  green  oasis  and 
rest  his  weary  limbs!”  He  sank  down  into  a chair,  and 
covered  his  quivering  face  with  his  trembling  hands. 

His  two  friends  stood  at  his  side  regarding  him  sorrow- 
fully. Neither  of  them  had  the  cruel  courage  to  break  in 
upon  this  paroxysm  of  anguish  with  a word  of  encouragement 
or  consolation. 

A pause  ensued,  in  which  the  silence  was  interrupted  only 
by  Schiller’s  deep-drawn  sighs,  and  the  few  indistinct  words, 
which  he  from  time  to  time  murmured  to  himself.  But  sud- 
denly he  arose,  and  when  he  withdrew  his  hands  from  his 
face  its  expression  was  completely  changed.  His  countenance 
was  no  longer  quivering  with  pain  and  flushed  with  anger, 
but  was  pale,  and  his  glance  deflant.  And  when  he  now 
shook  back  the  long  yellow  hair  which  shaded  his  brow,  with 
a quick  movement  of  the  head,  he  looked  like  a lion  shaking 
his  mane,  and  preparing  to  do  battle  with  an  approaching 
enemy. 

‘‘Enough  of  these  lamentations  and  womanish  complaints,” 
^aid  he,  in  a resolute,  hoarse  voice.  “ I will  be  a man  who 
has  the  courage  to  listen  to  the  worst  and  defy  the  greatest 
agony.  Repeat  all  that  you  have  said.  I will  not  interrupt 
you  again,  either  with  complaints  or  reproaches.  I know 
that  you  are  actuated  by  the  kindest  intentions,  and  that, 
like  the  good  surgeon,  you  only  desire  to  apply  the  knife  and 
fire  to  my  wounded  heart  in  order  to  heal  it.  And  now, 
speak,  my  friends!  Repeat  what  you  have  said!” 

He  walked  hastily  across  the  room  to  the  little  window, 
stood  there  with  his  back  turned  to  the  room,  and  beat  the 
window-panes  impatiently  with  his  cold  hands. 

“ Frederick,  why  repeat  what  is  already  burning  in  your 
head  and  heart?”  said  Körner,  gently.  “ Why  turn  the  knife 


240 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


once  more  in  the  wound,  and  tell  you  that  your  noble,  gener- 
ous love  is  not  appreciated,  not  honored?  The  best  and 
fairest  princess  of  the  world  would  have  reason  to  consider 
herself  happy  and  blessed,  if  the  poet  by  the  grace  of  God 
loved  her ; and  yet  his  noble,  generous  love  is  misused  by  a 
cold,  calculating  woman,  and  made  the  means  of  adorning^its 
object  for  richer  suitors.” 

“Proofs!”  cried  Schiller,  imperiously,  and  he  drummed 
away  at  the  window-panes  till  they  fairly  rang. 

“ It  is  difficult  for  others  to  give  proofs  in  such  cases,”  re- 
plied Körner,  in  a low  voice.  “ You  cannot  prove  to  the  man 
who  is  walking  onward  with  closed  eyes,  that  he  is  on  the 
verge  of  a precipice;  you  can  only  warn  him  and  entreat  him 
to  open  his  eyes,  that  he  may  see  the  danger  which  menaces. 
We  have  only  considered  it  our  duty  to  repeat  to  you  what  is 
known  by  all  Dresden,  and  what  all  your  acquaintances  and 
friends  say : that  this  Madame  von  Arnim  has  come  to  Dres- 
den to  seek  a husband  of  rank  and  fortune  for  her  daughter, 
and  that  she  only  encourages  Frederick  Schiller’s  attentions, 
because  the  poet’s  homage  makes  the  beautiful  young  lady 
appear  all  the  more  desirable  in  the  eyes  of  her  other  suitors.” 

“An  infernal  speculation,  truly!”  said  Schiller,  with  de- 
risive laughter.  “ But  where  are  the  proofs?  Until  they  are 
furnished,  I must  be  permitted  to  doubt.  I attach  no  im- 
portance whatever  to  the  tattle  of  the  good  city  of  Dresden ; 
to  the  malicious  suppositions  and  remarks  of  persons  with 
whom  I am  but  slightly  acquainted,  I am  also  quite  indiffer- 
ent. But  who  are  the  friends  who  believe  in  this  fable,  and 
who  have  commissioned  you  to  relate  it  to  me?  At  least,  give 
me  the  name  of  one  of  them.” 

“ I will  at  least  give  you  the  name  of  a lady  friend,”  said 
Göschen,  sadly;  “her  name  is  Sophie  Albrecht,  my  wife’s 
sister.” 

Schiller  turned  hastily  to  his  friends,  and  his  countenance 
now  wore  an  alarmed  expression. 

“ Sophie  Albrecht!”  said  he,  “ the  sensitive  artist — she  in 


SCHILLER  IN  DRESDEN. 


241 


whose  house  I first  saw  Marie.  Is  it  possible  that  she  can 
have  uttered  so  unworthy  a suspicion?” 

“ She  it  was  who  charged  me  to  warn  you,”  replied  Göschen, 
with  a sigh.  ‘‘  For  this  very  reason,  that  you  first  met  Ma- 
dame von  Arnim  and  her  daughter  in  her  house,  does  she  con- 
sider it  her  duty  to  warn  you  and  show  you  the  abyss  at  your 
feet.  At  this  first  interview,  she  noticed  with  alarm  how 
deep  an  impression  the  rare  beauty  of  Miss  von  Arnim  made 
on  you,  and  how  you  afterwards  ran  blindly  into  the  net 
which  the  old  spider,  the  speculative  mother,  had  set  for  you. 
This  Madame  von  Arnim  is  the  widow  of  a Saxon  officer,  who 
left  her  nothing  but  his  name  and  his  debts.  She  lives  on  a 
small  pension  given  her  by  the  king,  and  has,  it  seems,  ob- 
tained a few  thousand  dollars  from  some  rich  relative ; with 
this  sum  she  has  come  to  Dresden,  where  she  proposes  to  carry 
out  her  speculation — that  is,  to  keep  house  here  for  some  lit- 
tle time,  and  to  entertain  society,  and,  above  all,  rich  young 
cavaliers,  among  whom  she  hopes  to  find  an  eligible  suitor  for 
her  daughter.  This  at  least  is  no  calumny,  but  Madame  von 
Arnim  very  naively  admitted  as  much  to  my  sister-in-law, 
Sophie  Albrecht,  calling  her  attention  to  the  droll  circum- 
stance, that  the  first  candidate  who  presented  himself  was  no 
other  than  a poor  poet,  who  could  offer  her  daughter  neither 
rank,  title,  nor  fortune.  When  Sophie  reminded  her  that 
Frederick  Schiller  could  give  her  daughter  the  high  rank  and 
title  of  a poet,  and  adorn  her  brow  with  the  diamond  crown 
of  immortal  renown,  the  sagacious  lady  shrugged  her  shoul- 
ders, and  remarked  that  a crown  of  real  diamonds  would  be 
far  more  acceptable,  and  that  she  had  far  rather  see  her 
daughter  crowned  with  the  coronet  of  a countess  than  with 
the  most  radiant  poet’s  crown  conceivable.  And  she  already 
had  the  prospect  of  obtaining  such  a one  for  her  daughter ; 
the  poet’s  admiration  for  her  beautiful  daughter  had  already 
made  her  quite  a celebrity.” 

“ You  are  still  speaking  of  the  mother,  and  of  the  mother 
only,”  murmured  Schiller.  “I  know  that  this  woman  is 


242 


GOETHE  AND  SCHli^LEK. 


sordid,  and  that  she  would,  at  any  time,  sell  her  daughter  foi 
wealth  and  rank,  although  purchased  with  her  child’s  happi- 
ness. But  what  do  I care  for  the  mother ! Speak  to  me  of 
the  daughter,  for  she  it  is  whom  I love — she  is  my  hope,  my 
future.” 

“My  poor  friend,”  sighed  Körner,  as  he  stepped  forward 
and  laid  his  hand  on  Schiller’s  shoulder.  This  touch  and 
these  words  of  sympathy  startled  Schiller. 

“ Do  not  lament  over  me,  but  make  your  accusations,”  cried 
Schiller,  and  he  shook  his  golden  lion’s  mane  angrily. 
“ Speak,  what  charges  can  you  prefer  against  Marie  von 
Arnim?  But  I already  know  what  your  reply  would  be. 
You  would  say  that  she  has  been  infected  by  the  pitiful 
worldly  wisdom  of  her  scheming  mother,  and  that  I am  noth- 
ing more  to  her  than  the  ornament  with  which  she  adorns 
herself  for  another  suitor.” 

“ You  have  said  so,  Frederick  Schiller,  and  it  is  so,”  replied 
Körner,  in  a low  voice.  “ Yes,  the  worldly-wise  and  schem- 
ing mother  has  achieved  the  victory  over  her  nobler  daughter, 
and,  although  her  heart  may  suffer,  she  will  nevertheless  fol- 
low the  teachings  of  her  mother,  and  make  a speculation  of 
your  love.” 

“That  is  not  true,  that  is  calumny!”  cried  Schiller,  vio- 
lently. “ No,  no,  I do  not  believe  you ! Say  what  you  please 
of  the  mother,  but  do  not  defile  her  innocent  daughter  with 
such  vile,  unsubstantiated  calumny!” 

“What  proofs  do  you  demand?”  asked  Göschen,  shrug- 
ging his  shoulders.  “ I repeated  to  you  what  Madam  von 
Arnim  told  Sophie  Albrecht,  namely,  that  a rich  suitor  had 
already  been  found  for  her  daughter.” 

“ Yes,  that  the  mother  had  found  one.  But  who  told  you 
that  the  daughter  would  accept  him ; that  Marie  was  a party 
to  this  disgraceful  intrigue?” 

“ Of  tliat  you  can  certainly  best  assure  yourself,”  said  Kör- 
ner, slowly. 

“ Ilow  can  I do  tliat?”  asked  Schiller,  shuddering  slightly. 


SCHILLER  IN  DRESDEN. 


243 


Does  not  Miss  Marie  permit  you  to  visit  her  in  the  even- 
ing?” 

“ Yes,  she  does.” 

“ Only  when  yon  see  a light  at  the  window  of  her  cham- 
ber— the  signal  agreed  upon  between  you — only  then  you  are 
not  permitted  to  come.  Is  it  not  so?” 

“ Yes,  it  is  so,  and  that  you  may  well  know,  as  I told  you 
of  it  myself.  When  Marie  places  a light  at  that  window  it  is 
a sign  that  begs  me  not  to  come,  because  then  only  the  in- 
timate family  circle  is  assembled,  to  which  I certainly  do  not 
as  yet  belong.” 

‘‘You  can,  perhaps,  assure  yourself  whether  the  young 
lady  was  strictly  accurate  in  her  statement.  You  intend  pay- 
ing her  a visit  this  evening,  do  you  not?” 

“ Yes,  I do,”  cried  Schiller,  joyfully,  “ and  I will  fall  down 
on  my  knees  before  her,  and  mentally  beg  her  pardon  for  the 
unjust  suspicions  which  have  been  uttered  concerning  her.” 

“I  do  not  believe  that  she  will  receive  you  to-day,”  said 
Körner,  in  a low  voice.  “ This  so-called  family  circle  will 
have  assembled  again ; in  all  probability  you  will  see  a light 
in  the  designated  window!” 

“ Why  do  you  believe  that?” 

“ Well,  because  I happened  to  converse  with  several  young 
officers  to-day,  who  are  invited  to  Madam  von  Arnim ’s  for 
this  evening.  They  asked  if  they  might  not,  at  last,  hope  to 
meet  you  there,  regretting,  as  Madam  von  Arnim  had  told 
them,  that  your  bashfulness  and  misanthropy  made  it  impos- 
sible for  you  to  appear  in  strange  society.  I denied  this,  of 
course,  and  assured  them  that  Madam  von  Arnim  had  only 
been  jesting;  but  they  said  her  daughter  had  also  often  told 
them  that  Frederick  Schiller  was  very  diffident,  and  always 
avoided  the  larger  social  gatherings.  ‘If  that  were  not  the 
case,’  said  these  young  gentlemen,  ‘Schiller  would  certainly 
appear  at  Madam  von  Arnim ’s  the  dansante  this  evening,  that 
is,  unless  the  feelings  awakened  in  his  bosom  by  the  presence 
of  Count  Kunheim  might  be  of  too  disagreeable  a nature.  * 


244 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


Schiller  shuddered,  and  a dark  cloud  gathered  on  his  brow. 

Who  is  this  Count  Kunheim?’' 

“ I asked  them  this  question  also,  and  the  youilg  officers 
replied  that  Count  Kunheim  was  the  wealthy  owner  of  a large 
landed  estate  in  Prussia,  who  had  intended  remaining  a few 
days  in  Dresden  in  passing  through  the  city  on  his  way  to 
the  baths  of  Teplitz.  He  had,  however,  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  Miss  von  Arnim  at  a party,  and  had  been  so  captivated 
by  her  grace  and  beauty  that  he  had  now  sojourned  here  for 
weeks,  and  was  a daily  visitor  at  Madam  von  Arnim ’s 
house.’’ 

“And  she  never  even  mentioned  his  name,”  murmured 
Schiller,  with  trembling  lips,  the  cold  perspiration  standing 
on  his  forehead  in  great  drops. 

“No,  she  told  you  nothing  about  him,”  repeated  Körner. 
“ And  this  evening  Count  Kunheim  will  be  with  her  again, 
while  the  little  taper  will  burn  for  you  at  the  window,  an- 
nouncing that  the  impenetrable  family  circle  has  once  more 
closed  around  the  fair  maid  and  her  mother.” 

“ If  that  were  true — oh,  my  God,  if  that  were  true!”  cried 
Schiller,  looking  wildly  around  him,  his  breast  heaving  with 
agitation.  “ If  this  beautiful,  this  divine  being  could  really 
have  the  cruel  courage  to — ” 

He  had  not  the  courage  to  pronounce  the  bitter  word  which 
made  his  soul  shudder,  but  covered  his  face  with  his  hands, 
and  stood  immovable  for  a long  time,  wrestling  with  his  grief 
and  anguish.  His  two  friends  did  not  disturb  him  with  any 
attempts  at  consolation.  They  understood  the  poet  well; 
they  knew  that  his  heart  was  firm,  although  easily  moved. 
They  knew  that  after  Frederick  Schiller  had  wept  and 
lamented  like  a child,  he  would  once  more  be  the  strong, 
courageous,  man,  ready  to  look  sorrow  boldly  in  the  face. 
And  now  but  a short  time  elapsed  before  the  manly  breast  had 
regained  sufficient  strength  to  bear  the  burden  of  its  grief. 
Schiller  withdrew  his  hands  from  his  face,  threw  his  head 
back  proudly,  and  shook  his  golden  mane. 


GILDED  POVERTY. 


245 


“Yon  are  right,  all  doubt  must  be  removed,'*  said  he;  “I 
will  see  if  the  light  has  been  placed  at  the  window!” 

He  looked  at  his  large  silver  watch — a present  from  his 
father.  Its  old-fashioned  form,  and  the  plain  hair-guard 
with  which  it  was  provided,  instead  of  a gold  chain,  made  it 
any  thing  but  an  appropriate  ornament  for  a suitor  of  Marie 
von  Arnim.  “It  is  eight  o’clock,”  said  he — “that  is,  the 
hour  of  reprieve  or  of  execution  has  come.  Go,  my  friends, 
I will  dress  myself,  and  then — ” 

“But  will  you  not  permit  us  to  accompany  you  to  the 
house?”  asked  Körner.  “Will  you  not  permit  your  friends 
to  remain  at  your  side,  to  console  you  when  the  sad  convic- 
tion dawns  on  your  mind,  or  to  witness  your  triumph,  if  it 
appears  (what  I sincerely  hope  may  be  the  case)  that  we  have 
been  misinformed?” 

Schiller  shook  his  head.  “No,”  said  he,  solemnly,  “ there 
are  great  moments  in  which  man  can  only  subdue  the  demons 
when  he  is  entirely  alone,  and  battles  against  them  with  his 
own  strength  of  soul.  For  me,  such  a moment  is  at  hand ; 
pray  leave  me,  my  friends!” 


CHAPTER  II. 

GILDED  POVERTY. 

The  chandelier  in  the  large  reception-room  had  been 
already  lighted;  and  in  the  adjoining  room,  the  door  of  which 
was  thrown  open,  the  servant  hired  for  the  occasion  was  oc- 
cupied in  lighting  the  candles  in  the  plated  candlesticks, 
while  at  a side  table  a second  servant  was  busily  engaged  in 
arranging  the  cups  and  saucers,  and  providing  each  with  a 
spoon ; but  he  now  discontinued  his  work,  and  turned  to  the 
elderly  lady,  who  stood  at  his  side,  and  was  endeavoring  to  cut 
a moderately-sized  cake  into  the  thinnest  possible  slices. 

“ My  lady,”  said  the  servant,  humbly,  “ ten  spoons  are  still 
wanting.  Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  give  them  to  me?” 


246 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


“Ah,  it  is  true,“  replied  the  lady,  “ I have  only  given  you 
the  dozen  we  have  in  daily  use,  and  must  fetch  the  others 
from  the  closet.  You  shall  have  them  directly." 

“ My  lady,"  remarked  the  first  servant,  “ there  are  not  can- 
dles enough.  Each  of  the  branched  candlesticks  requires  six 
candles,  and  I have  only  six  in  all." 

“ Then  you  will  have  to  double  the  number  by  cutting  them 
in  two,"  rejoined  her  ladyship,  who  was  counting  the  slices  of 
cake,  to  see  if  she  had  not  already  cut  a sufficient  number. 

“Thirty-three,"  she  murmured,  letting  her  finger  rest  on 
the  last  slice.  “ That  ought  to  be  enough.  There  will  be 
twenty  persons,  and  many  of  them  will  not  take  cake  a second 
time.  A good  piece  will  be  left  for  to-morrow,  and  we  can 
invite  Schiller  to  breakfast  with  us  on  the  remainder." 

At  this  moment,  a red-faced  maid,  whose  attire  was  far 
from  being  tidy,  appeared  at  a side  door. 

“ My  lady,"  said  she,  “ I have  just  been  to  the  grocer's  to 
get  the  butter  and  sugar,  but  he  would  not  let  me  have  any." 

“He  wouldn’t  let  you  have  any?"  repeated  Madame  von 
Arnim.  “ What  do  you  mean?" 

“ My  lady,"  continued  the  cook,  in  a whispering  voice,  and 
with  downcast  eyes,  “ the  grocer  said  he  would  furnish  noth- 
ing more  until  you  paid  his  bill." 

“ He  is  an  insolent  fellow,  from  whom  you  must  buy  noth- 
ing more,  Lisette,"  cried  Madame  von  Arnim,  very  angrily. 
“ I will  pay  this  impertinent  fellow  to-morrow  morning, 
when  I have  had  my  money  changed,  but  my  custom  I with- 
draw from  him  forever.  I wish  you  to  understand,  Lisette, 
in  the  future  you  are  to  buy  nothing  whatever  from  this  man. 
Go  to  the  new  grocer  on  the  corner  of  Market  Square,  give 
him  my  compliments,  and  tell  him  that  I have  heard  his 
wares  so  highly  praised  that  I intend  to  give  him  my  patron- 
age. He  is  to  keep  an  account  of  all  I purchase,  and  I will 
settle  with  him  at  the  end  of  each  month." 

“ My  lady,"  said  the  cook,  “ as  I have  to  go  out  again,  any- 
liow,  wouldn’t  it  be  better  for  mo  to  run  over  to  the  game 


GILDED  POVERTY. 


247 


dealers,  in  Wilsdruffer  Street,  and  buy  another  turkey?  One 
will  certainly  not  be  enough,  my  lady.” 

“ But,  Lisette,”  rejoined  her  ladyship,  angrily,  ‘‘  what  non- 
sense is  this?  When  we  talked  over  the  supper  together  you 
said  yourself  that  one  turkey  would  be  quite  sufficient.” 

“ Yes,  my  lady,  but  you  then  said  that  only  twelve  persons 
were  to  be  invited,  and  now  there  are  twenty!” 

“ That  makes  no  difference,  whatever,  Lisette ! What  will 
well  satisfy  twelve,  will  satisfy  twenty;  moreover,  it  is  not 
necessary  that  they  should  be  exactly  satisfied.  I was  invited 
to  a supper,  a few  evenings  since,  where  they  had  nothing  but 
a roast  turkey,  and  a pie  afterwards.  There  were  twenty-two 
persons,  and  although  each  plate  was  provided  with  a respect- 
able piece  of  the  roast,  I distinctly  observed  that  half  of  the 
turkey  was  left  over.  Go,  therefore,  and  get  the  butter  and 
sugar,  but  one  turkey  is  entirely  sufficient. — Every  thing  de- 
pends, however,  on  the  carving,”  continued  her  ladyship, 
when  the  cook  had  taken  her  departure,  “ and  I charge  you, 
Leonhard,  to  m^ake  the  carving-knife  very  sharp,  and  to  cut 
the  slices  as  thin  and  delicate  as  possible.  Nothing  is  more 
vulgar  than  to  serve  up  great  thick  pieces  of  meat.  It  makes 
it  look  as  if  one  was  not  in  good  society,  but  in  some  res- 
taurant where  people  go  to  eat  all  they  desire.” 

“My  lady  knows  what  my  performances  are  in  that  line,” 
said  the  elder  servant,  simpering;  “ my  lady  has  tried  me  be- 
fore. Without  boasting,  I can  make  the  impossible,  possible. 
For  instance,  I carved  yesterday,  at  Countess  von  Versen’s^ 
for  a company  of  twenty-four  people,  and  as  a roast,  a single 
hare,  but  I cut  it  into  pieces  that  gladdened  the  heart.  I 
divided  the  back  into  as  many  pieces  as  there  were  joints. 
Eighteen  joints  made  eighteen  pieces,  I divided  the  quarters 
into  twenty  pieces,  making  in  all  thirty-eight,  and  so  much 
still  remained  that  my  lady,  the  countess,  afterward  remarked 
that  she  would  perhaps  have  another  little  party  this  evening, 
and  gave  me  two  groschens  extra  for  my  services.” 

Carve  the  turkey  so  that  half  of  it  shall  remain,”  said  her 


248 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


ladyship,  with  dignity,  “ and  I will  also  give  yon  two  groschens 
extra.” 

The  servant  smiled  faintly  and  bowed  in  acknowledgment 
of  this  magnanimous  offer.  He  then  turned  to  the  table  at 
which  the  young  servant  was  occupied  in  folding  up  the  nap- 
kins into  graceful  figures.  “ Here  are  three  bottles  of  white 
wine,  my  lady,”  said  Leonhard,  thoughtfully.  “ I very  much 
fear  that  it  will  not  go  round  twice,  even  if  I fill  the  glasses 
only  half  full.” 

‘‘ Unfortunately  I have  no  further  supply  of  this  variety,” 
said  her  ladyship,  with  dignity,  it  will  therefore  be  better  to 
take  a lighter  wine,  of  which  I have  several  varieties  in  my 
pantry.  I will  take  these  three  bottles  back  and  bring  you 
others.”  With  a bold  grasp  she  seized  them  and  vanished 
through  the  side  door. 

Do  you  know  what  her  ladyship  is  now  doing?”  asked  the 
experienced  servant,  Leonhard,  his  mouth  expanded  into  a 
broad  grin,  as  he  danced  through  the  room  in  his  pumps,  and 
placed  the  chairs  in  position. 

‘‘She  has  gone  after  a lighter  wine,”  replied  the  younger 
and  inexperienced,  who,  with  commendable  zeal,  was  at  this 
moment  transforming  the  peak  of  a napkin  into  a swan’s 
neck. 

“After  a lighter  wine,”  repeated  Leonhard,  derisively. 
“ That  is,  she  is  on  her  way  to  the  pantry  with  her  three  bot- 
tles of  wine,  a pitcher  of  water,  a funnel,  and  an  empty  bot- 
tle. When  she  enters  the  pantry  she  will  lock  the  door,  and 
when  she  opens  the  door  and  marches  forth,  she  will  have  four 
full  bottles  instead  of  three,  and  only  the  pitcher  will  be 
empty.” 

The  other  servant  looked  up  in  dismay,  heedless  of  the  fact 
that  his  swan’s  neck  was  collapsing  into  an  ordinary  napkin 
again.  “ Mr.  Leonhard,  do  you  mean  to  say  that  her  lady- 
ship is  diluting  the  wine  with  water?” 

“ Young  man,  that  is  not  called  diluting,  but  simply  ‘bap- 
tizing,’ and,  indeed,  it  is  very  appropriate  that,  in  Christian 


GILDED  POVERTY. 


249 


society,  where  every  body  has  been  baptized,  the  wine  should 
also  receive  baptism.  Bear  this  in  mind,  my  successor.” 

“ Your  successor?  How  so,  your  successor?”  asked  the  other, 
eagerly,  as  he  pushed  a piece  of  bread  under  a napkin,  which 
he  had  just  converted  into  a melon.  “ Do  you  propose  to  re- 
tire to  private  life,  and  resign  your  custom  to  me,  Mr. 
Leonhard?” 

“ Such  custom  as  this,  willingly,”  growled  Leonhard,  “ that 
is,  when  I have  received  my  money — when  her  ladyship  pays 
the  last  penny  she  owes  me!” 

“ Then  she  has  not  paid  you  for  your  services?”  said  the 
younger,  in  a faint  voice. 

She  has  been  in  my  debt  since  I first  served  her;  she  owes 
me  for  four  dinners  and  eight  soirees.  She  promised  to  pay 
each  time,  and  has  never  kept  her  word ; and  I would  cer- 
tainly have  discontinued  coming,  long  ago,  if  I had  not  known 
that  my  money  would  then  certainly  be  lost.  As  it  is,  I now 
and  then  receive  a paltry  instalment  of  a few  groschens.  To- 
day,” he  continued,  ‘‘she  went  so  far  as  to  promise  me  two 
groschens  extra.  Promised!  yes,  but  will  she  keep  her  word? 
And  it  is  very  evident  to  me  what  the  end  of  all  this  is  to  be. 
Her  ladyship  wishes  to  be  rid  of  me ; and  I am  to  be  set  aside, 
little  by  little,  and  by  you,  my  friend.  To-day,  we  are  to 
wait  on  the  table  together;  but  the  next  time  she  drums  a 
company  of  matrimonial  candidates  together,  you  alone  will 
be  summoned.  Therefore,  I call  you  my  successor.  I hope 
you  will  profit  by  my  example.  It  is  a fearful  thing  to  say, 
but  nevertheless  true,  I stand  before  you  as  a living  example 
of  how  her  ladyship  cheats  a noble  servant  out  of  his  well- 
earned  wages.  But  patience,  patience ! I will  not  leave  this 
field  of  my  renown  without  having  at  least  avenged  myself ! 
I intend  to  beg  her  ladyship  to  pay  me ; and  if  she  refuses  to 
do  so,  I will  exercise  vengeance,  twofold,  fearful  vengeance. 
Before  the  company  assembles,  I will  be  so  awkward  as  to  fall 
down  and  break  the  four  bottles  of  baptized  wine — before  the 
company  is  assembled,  because  if  I did  it  afterwards,  the 


250 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


guests  would  hear  the  crash,  and  know  that  she  had  had  wine ; 
but  if  I do  it  beforehand,  nobody  will  believe  that  I broke  the 
bottles/' 

‘‘That  is  a splendid  idea,"  observed  the  younger  servant, 
grinning.  “ I will  bear  this  in  mind,  and  follow  your  example. " 

“I  told  you  I was  a living  example,  my  successor,"  said 
Leonhard,  impressively.  “ You  can  learn  of  me  how  to  suffer, 
and  how  to  avenge  your  wrongs." 

“ But  you  spoke  of  twofold  vengeance.  In  what  will  your 
second  act  of  vengeance  consist?" 

“ The  second  act  of  vengeance  will  be  this : in  spite  of  the 
promised — mark  the  words  of  your  unfortunate  living  exam- 
ple— in  spite  of  the  promised  two  groschens,  I will  not  cut 
the  unhappy  turkey  (which,  to  judge  by  the  length  of  her 
spurs,  must  have  been  torn  from  her  family  as  an  aged  grand- 
mother) into  little,  transparent  slices,  leaving  half  of  it  for  the 
next  day;  but  I will  cut  the  whole  turkey  into  pieces,  and 
such  great  thick  pieces,  that  it  will  not  go  round  once,  and 
nothing  but  the  neck  and  drumsticks  will  be  left  when  her 
ladyship’s  turn  comes.  Bear  this  in  mind  for  the  future,  my 
successor ! I am  now  going  to  her  ladyship  with  a flag  of 
truce  before  the  battle.  If  she  rejects  the  conditions  on 
which  I consent  to  make  peace,  the  result  will  be  made  known 
to  you  by  its  crashing  consequences.  I am  now  going,  my 
successor;  and  I repeat  it,  for  the  last  time,  I am  your  living 
example!" 

Gravely  nodding  his  well-dressed  and  powdered  head,  the 
servant  glided  through  the  room  on  his  inaudible  dancing- 
shoes,  and  vanished  through  the  side  door,  which  opened  into 
a small  room,  connected  with  the  kitchen  by  a passage.  Her 
ladyship  was  neither  in  this  room  nor  in  the  kitchen,  but,  as 
Leonhard  had  prophesied,  had  repaired  to  the  pantry  and 
locked  herself  in.  The  living  example  smiled  triumphantly, 
and  knocked  gently  at  the  door. 

“What  is  it?"  asked  her  ladyship  from  within.  “Who 
knocks?" 


GILDED  POVERTY. 


251 


“ Only  Leonhard,  my  lady,  who  has  come  after  the  four 
bottles  of  wine.” 

You  shall  have  them  directly,”  replied  his  mistress;  and 
Leonhard,  whose  ear  was  applied  to  the  keyhole,  heard  for  a 
moment  a sound  as  of  water  gurgling  through  a funnel. 
Then  all  was  still,  and  he  hurriedly  withdrew  from  the  key- 
hole. 

The  door  was  now  opened,  and  Madame  von  Arnim  looked 
out.  ‘‘  Come  in  and  take  the  wine;  there  it  stands.” 

Leonhard  danced  up  the  two  steps  and  into  the  pantry,  and 
laid  hold  of  the  bottles,  two  in  each  hand. 

^‘And  now,  my  lady,”  said  he,  bowing  profoundly,  and 
waving  his  arms  slowly  to  and  fro  with  the  bottles,  like  a jug- 
gler who  first  throws  himself  into  the  proper  position  before 
beginning  his  performances;  ‘‘and  now,  my  lady,  I beg  that 
you  will  graciously  accord  your  humble  servant  a few  mo- 
ments’ conversation.” 

Her  ladyship  inclined  her  head  haughtily.  “ Speak,  Leon- 
hard, but  be  brief;  my  company  will  soon  arrive.” 

The  younger  servant  was  still  at  work  preparing  for  the 
supper ; and,  while  so  engaged,  was  at  the  same  time  refiect- 
ing  on  the  dangers  and  uncertainties  of  life,  and  particularly 
on  those  attending  a career  so  open  to  the  caprices  of  fortune 
as  that  of  a valet  de  place.  Suddenly  the  silence  was  broken 
by  a loud  crash ; and  the  servant  rushed  to  the  side  door  to 
listen.  He  could  now  distinctly  hear  the  angry,  scolding 
voice  of  her  ladyship,  and  the  humble,  apologetic  murmurs 
of  the  cunning  Leonhard. 

“Yes,”  said  the  younger  servant,  grinning  with  delight, 
“ he  has  broken  the  four  bottles  of  wine!  Consequently,”  he 
quickly  added,  his  voice  subdued  to  a low  murmur,  “her 
ladyship  has  not  paid  him,  and  will  probably  not  pay  me 
either ! That  is  sad,  for  I bought  a pair  of  new  cotton  gloves 
especially  for  this  occasion,”  said  he,  surveying  his  hands. 

No,  her  ladyship  had  not  paid  Leonhard;  as  usual,  she 
had  endeavored  to  console  him  with  promises  for  the  future, 
17 


252 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


and  the  servant  had  taken  his  revenge.  With  unspeakable 
satisfaction,  he  was  now  engaged  in  picking  up  the  fragments 
of  glass  which  covered  the  floor,  perfectly  indifferent  to  the 
volleys  of  wrath  which  her  ladyship  thundered  down  upon 
him  from  the  threshold  of  the  pantry. 

What  am  I to  do  now?  what  can  I do?’'  asked  his  mis- 
tress, Anally.  “ To  give  a supper  without  wine  is  impossible!” 

Having  cleared  the  wreck  away,  Leonhard  now  arose. 

^‘My  lady,”  said  he,  with  an  air  of  profound  deference,  “ I 
deeply  regret  this  unfortunate  occurrence,  and  I humbly  beg 
you  to  deduct  the  value  of  these  four  bottles  of  wine  when 
you  pay  me  my  wages  for  the  four  dinners  and  eight  soirees, 
not  including  to-day’s!” 

“ That  I will  do,  as  a matter  of  course,”  rejoined  her  lady- 
ship; “ but  what  am  I to  do  now!” 

“ I take  the  liberty  of  making  a suggestion,”  murmured  the 
living  example,  submissively.  “ In  the  first  instance,  your 
ladyship  took  from  me  the  three  bottles  of  strong  wine,  giving 
me  four  bottles  of  a lighter  variety  instead.  Now,  as  I have 
had  the  misfortune  to  break  these  four  bottles,  how  would  it 
do  to  fall  back  on  the  original  three  bottles  of  strong  wine? 
As  I pour  out  the  wine  in  the  pantry,  I could  baptize  it  a lit- 
tle, and  add  some  water  to  each  glass.  W^hat  does  your  lady- 
ship think  of  this  plan?” 

Her  only  reply  was  an  annihilating  glance,  which  Leonhard 
received  with  an  air  of  perfect  composure,  as  her  ladyship 
rustled  past  him  and  descended  into  the  kitchen. 


OHAPTEE  III. 

MARIE  YON  ARNIM. 

With  glowing  cheeks  and  sparkling  eyes  her  ladyship  passed 
on,  not  to  the  parlor,  but  through  a side  door  and  into  a small 
chamber.  It  was  a plainly-furnished  bedroom.  It  contained 
two  uncurtained  beds  and  a bureau,  which  stood  in  front  0/ 


MARIE  VON  ARNIM. 


253 


the  only  window  through  which  but  little  light  penetrated 
the  room  from  the  narrow  side  street  into  which  it  opened. 
A young  girl  of  extraordinary  beauty  was  sitting  before  the 
bureau,  on  which  a single  candle  burned.  Her  small,  lovely 
oval  head  was  that  of  a Venus;  the  tall,  slender  and  graceful 
figure,  that  of  a Juno.  In  conformity  with  the  fashion  of 
that  day,  her  dark-brown  and  shining  hair  was  arranged  in 
hundreds  of  little  curls,  encompassed  with  a golden  band, 
which  terminated  on  her  forehead  in  a serpent’s  head.  Her 
eyes — the  large  blue  eyes  which  contrasted  so  wondrously  with 
the  dark  hair — were  gazing  at  the  mirror.  A sad  smile  played 
about  her  beautiful,  crimson  lips,  as  she  looked  at  the  reflect 
tion  of  her  own  figure,  at  the  lovely,  rosy  countenance,  the 
full  and  rounded  shoulders,  the  arms  of  dazzling  whiteness, 
and  at  the  tapering  waist,  brought  out  to  great  advantage  by 
the  closely-fitting  blue  silk  bodice.  She  wore  no  ornament 
but  the  golden  band  in  her  hair;  her  jewels  were  her  youth 
and  her  beauty ; the  tears  which  trembled  on  her  eyelashes 
were  more  precious  gems  than  were  ever  mined  for  in  the 
depths  of  the  earth,  for  these  came  unsought  from  the  depths 
of  her  heart. 

She  was  so  completely  absorbed  in  her  sadly-sweet  dreams 
that  her  mother’s  entrance  was  unobserved;  and  not  until 
now,  when  her  mother  stood  at  her  side,  was  she  awakened 
from  her  reverie. 

“What  do  you  wish,  mamma?”  she  asked  quickly.  “Have 
our  guests  arrived?  Am  I to  go  down?”  She  was  about  to 
rise,  but  her  mother  motioned  her  back  with  an  imperious 
gesture. 

“Kemain  where  you  are,  no  one  has  come  yet.  Lisette 
will  announce  the  arrivals  as  they  come.  I desire  to  speak 
with  you.” 

Her  daughter  sighed,  folded  her  hands  on  her  lap,  and  let 
her  head  fall  on  her  bosom  in  mute  resignation.  “ I think  I 
know  what  you  wish  to  speak  about,  mother,”  she  whispered. 

“ That  I can  readily  believe,  nor  is  it  at  all  surprising  that 


254 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


you  should,”  said  her  corpulent  ladyship,  as  she  seated  herself 
at  her  daughter’s  side.  “ I wish  to  speak  to  you  of  our  future 
and  of  your  duties.  This  state  of  things  can  continue  no 
longer ! I can  no  longer  endure  this  life  of  plated  poverty. 
I must  no  longer  be  exposed  to  the  humiliations  I am  com- 
pelled to  suffer  at  the  hands  of  shoemakers  and  tailors,  grocers 
and  servants,  and  the  host  of  others  who  are  dunning  me  for 
a few  paltry  groschens.  My  creditors  have  compelled  me  to 
run  the  gantlet  again  to-day,  and  I have  been  so  annoyed 
and  harassed  that  I feel  like  crying.” 

“Poor  mother!”  sighed  Marie.  “ Ah,  why  did  we  not  re- 
main in  quiet,  little  Pillnitz,  where  we  were  doing  so  well, 
where  our  modest  means  were  sufficient  for  our  support,  and 
where  we  were  not  compelled  to  gild  and  burnish  our  poverty  I” 

“For  the  hundredth  time  I will  tell  you  why  we  did  so,” 
rejoined  her  mother,  impatiently.  “ I left  Pillnitz,  and 
brought  you  to  Dresden,  because  in  Pillnitz  there  were  only 
pensioned  revenue  officials,  invalid  officers,  and  a few  gray- 
headed lawyers  and  judges,  but  no  young  gentlemen,  and, 
least  of  all,  no  marriageable,  wealthy  gentlemen,  for  you.” 

“ For  me,  mamma?  Have  I ever  expressed  any  longing  to 
be  married?” 

“ Perhaps  not,  for  you  are  a simple-minded,  foolish  dreamer; 
but  I desired  it.  I recognized  the  necessity  of  making  a 
wealthy  and  a suitable  match  for  you.” 

“If  you  had  recognized  this  necessity,  mother,”  cried 
Marie,  bursting  into  tears,  “ it  was  very  cruel  of  you  to  let  any 
other  than  such  wealthy,  marriageable  gentlemen  come  to  our 
house.  If  this  is  really  a matrimonial  bureau,  we  should  have 
permitted  only  those  to  register  themselves  who  possessed  the 
necessary  qualifications.” 

“I  see  you  are  becoming  quite  sarcastic  and  bitter,”  said 
her  ladyship,  shrugging  her  shoulders.  “ You  have  profited 
somewhat  by  your  interview  with  Schiller.” 

Marie  drew  back  with  a quick,  convulsive  movement,  and  a 
sigh  escaped  her  lips.  “ You  should  not  have  mentioned 


MARIE  VON  ARNIM. 


255 


name  of  this  noble  man  at  such  a time,  at  a time  when  I am 
again  compelled  to  deceive  him.” 

“Enough  of  this  sentimentalism,  Marie,”  rejoined  her 
mother.  “ Monsieur  Schiller  is  a very  pleasant  and  agreeable 
man;  he  may  be  a great  poet  besides,  but  a suitable  husband 
for  you,  he  is  not!  He  can  scarcely  earn  enough  for  his  own 
support,  and  his  clothing  is  not  respectable.  How  did  he  look 
when  he  came  here  yesterday?  You  will  admit  that  it  is  im- 
possible to  bring  him  into  the  society  c rich  cavaliers  and 
elegant  officers,  in  his  disorderly  costum  .” 

“ He  looked  just  as  he  did  when  we  first  met  him  at  Ma- 
dame Albrecht’s,  and  yet  you  then  begged  him  to  visit  us. 
And  you  it  was  who  afterwards  encouraged  his  visits.” 

“Nor  do  I regret  having  done  so,”  remarked  Madame  von 
Arnim,  quietly.  “ Councillor  Schiller  is  a man  of  high 
respectability  and  eminence.  Our  intimacy  with  him  is  of 
great  advantage  to  us.  It  proves  to  the  world  that  we  are 
wise  and  intellectual  ourselves,  for  otherwise,  so  intellectual  a 
man  would  not  have  selected  us  as  associates.  Believe  me, 
this  intimacy  has  greatly  advanced  our  social  position ; it  has 
called  great  attention  to  us,  and  placed  your  youth  and  beauty 
in  the  proper  light.  Gentlemen  of  the  highest  standing  and 
greatest  wealth  now  consider  it  a great  honor  to  be  permitted 
to  visit  at  our  house,  since  they  know  that  Frederick  Schiller 
adores  you,  each  one  of  them  is  anxious  to  achieve  the  renown 
of  supplanting  the  celebrated  poet  in  your  favor  and  making 
you  his  wife.  You  have  a great  many  suitors,  Marie,  and 
you  owe  them,  in  a great  measure,  to  your  intimacy  with 
Schiller.” 

“But  that  is  wrong,  that  is  criminal!”  cried  Marie,  burst- 
ing into  tears. 

“Why  so?”  rejoined  Madame  von  Arnim,  laughing.  “He 
was  the  alluring  bait  we  used  to  catch  our  gold-fishes  with; 
I can  see  nothing  criminal  in  that.  Why  was  this  wise  man 
foolish  enough  to  fall  in  love  with  you,  as  he  must  have 
known  that  a union  between  you  and  him  is  impossible?’' 


256 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


“Why  impossible?”  asked  Marie,  quickly;  she  dried  her 
eyes,  and  looked  defiantly  into  her  mother’s  complacent, 
smiling  countenance. 

“ Why  impossible?  Because  you  are  of  too  good,  too  noble 
a family  to  ally  yourself  with  a man  who  is  not  a nobleman, 
who  has  no  preeminent  rank.” 

“ Mother,  Frederick  Schiller’s  rank  is  higher  and  more  illus- 
trious than  that  of  counts  and  barons.  There  are  hundreds 
of  princes,  counts,  and  barons,  in  the  German  empire,  and 
but  one  poet,  Frederick  Schiller.  Happy  and  highly  honored 
throughout  all  Germany  will  the  woman  be  to  whom  Freder- 
ick Schiller  gives  his  name,  whom  he  makes  his  wife.” 

“Well,  that  may  be,”  said  Madame  von  Arnim,  contempt- 
uously, “ but  one  thing  is  certain,  and  that  is,  that  you  will 
never  be  this  woman.” 

“ And  why  not?”  asked  Marie,  passionately.  “ If  Schiller 
really  loves  me,  and  offers  me  his  hand,  why  shall  I not  ac- 
cept it?  Because  he  is  not  wealthy?  He  will  know  how  to 
convert  the  treasures  of  his  intellect  into  millions  of  money. 
Until  then  I can  practice  economy.  My  wants  are  few,  and 
yon  well  know,  mother,  that  I can  make  a little  go  a long 
way.  Then,  permit  me  to  be  happy  in  my  own  way.  I will 
tell  you  the  whole  truth,  mother,  I love  Frederick  Schiller, 
and,  if  he  asks  me  to  be  his  wife,  I shall  be  the  happiest  of 
God’s  creatures.” 

“Nonsense!”  rejoined  her  ladyship.  “You  will  be  kind 
enough  to  give  up  all  thought  of  this  foolish  love,  and  make 
up  your  mind  to  marry  the  noble  and  wealthy  gentleman 
selected  for  you  by  your  mother.” 

“Mother,”  cried  Marie,  imploringly,  “do  not  be  so  cruel, 
have  pity  on  me!  Ho  not  compel  me  to  destroy  my  own  hap- 
piness, for  I tell  you  that  I can  only  be  happy  at  Schiller’s 
side.” 

“And  why  should  you  be  happy?”  asked  her  mother, 
coldly.  “ What  right  have  you  to  happiness  above  the  rest  of 
mankind?  Ho  you  suppose  I am  happy?  I have  never  been. 


MARIE  VON  ARNIM. 


257 


and  haye  never  imagined  I had  a right  to  be.  Life  is  a pretty 
hard  nut;  in  attempting  to  crack  it  we  break  our  teeth,  and 
when  we  at  last  succeed,  we  find  that  it  is  empty,  after  all. 
Whether  we  are  personally  happy  or  not,  is  a matter  of  small 
moment — the  one  thing  is  to  do  our  duty  to  others ; and  your 
duty  it  is,  to  repay  your  mother  for  her  sacrifices  for  yourself 
and  your  brother.  At  your  father’s  death  you  were  both 
young  children,  and  of  course  his  lieutenant’s  paltry  pension 
was  not  sufficient  for  our  support.  But  I could  not  let  you 
starve,  and  it  was  my  duty  to  give  you  an  education  that 
would  qualify  you  to  take  the  position  in  society  to  which  your 
rank  entitles  you.  I did  not  hesitate  for  a moment,  and, 
although  I was  still  young,  and  might  have  made  a second 
and  an  advantageous  marriage,  I gave  up  all  such  plans,  sold 
my  handsome  and  costly  trousseau,  and  retired  with  you  to 
the  little  town  of  Pillnitz,  where  I devoted  myself  wholly  to 
the  education  of  my  children.  You  know  that  this  is  so,  do 
you  not?” 

“I  do,”  replied  Marie,  as  she  grasped  her  mother’s  hand 
and  carried  it  to  her  lips.  “ You  sacrificed  yourself  for  your 
children,  and  they  are  indebted  to  you  for  all  that  they  are.” 

“Unfortunately,  that  is  not  a great  deal  as  yet,”  said  her 
mother.  “ Your  brother  is  only  a poor  second-lieutenant, 
whose  salary  is  not  sufficient  for  his  support,  and  you  are 
only  an  indigent  young  lady  of  noble  birth,  who  must  either 
become  a governess  or  marry  a fortune.  My  means  are  now 
entirely  exhausted.  Little  by  little  I have  sold  all  the  valu- 
ables I possessed,  my  diamonds,  my  jewelry,  and  my  silver- 
ware. I finally  parted  with  my  last  jewel,  the  necklace 
inherited  from  my  mother,  in  order  that  we  might  live  in 
Dresden  a year  on  the  proceeds.  But  the  year  is  almost  at 
an  end,  and  my  money  also.  We  cannot  maintain  ourselves 
here  more  than  four  weeks  longer,  and  then  the  artistic 
structure  of  our  social  position  will  crumble  over  our  heads, 
and  all  will  be  over.  You  will  be  compelled  to  earn  your  own 
bread,  your  poor  brother  will  be  reduced  to  the  greatest  ex- 


258 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


tremities,  and  your  mother  will  have  to  take  up  her  abode  in 
a debtors’  prison,  as,  after  her  well-considered  plans  have 
failed,  she  will  have  no  means  to  meet  the  demands  of  her 
numerous  creditors.  All  this  will  be  your  work,  the  respon- 
sibility rests  with  you.’' 

“ 0 my  God,  have  pity  on  me!”  sobbed  Marie.  “ Show  me 
the  result  of  all  this  trouble!” 

“The  result  is,  governess  or  countess,”  said  Madam  von 
Arnim,  quietly.  “ In  your  weakness  you  may  suppose  there 
could  be  a third  alternative,  that  of  becoming  Councillor 
Schiller’s  wife.  Yet  I will  never  give  my  consent  to  such  a 
misalliance ; a misalliance  is  only  excusable  when  gilded  over 
with  extraordinary  wealth.  But  Councillor  Schiller  is  poor, 
and  will  always  remain  poor;  he  is  an  idealist,  and  not  a 
practical  man.  I should  like  to  know  what  advantage  I 
should  derive  from  having  the  poet  Schiller  as  a son-in-law. 
Can  he  compensate  me  for  my  sacrifices?  can  he  replace  my 
jewels,  my  trousseau,  and  my  silver- ware?  You  know  that 
he  cannot,  and  never  will  be  able  to  do  so.  It  is  your  sacred 
and  imperative  duty  to  compensate  and  reward  me  for  the 
sacrifices  which  I have  made  for  you,  and  to  secure  to  me  in 
my  old  age  the  comfortable  existence  of  which  care  and  solic- 
itude for  yourself  and  your  brother  have  hitherto  deprived 
me.  You  will  marry  the  rich  Count  Kunheim.  You  will 
receive  his  attentions  in  such  a manner  as  to  encourage  him 
to  offer  you  his  hand,  which  you  will  then  accept.  I com- 
mand you  to  do  so!” 

“ But,  mother,  this  is  impossible,  I do  not  love  the  count, 
I cannot  marry  him!  Have  pity  on  me,  mother!”  she  sank 
down  on  her  knees,  and  raised  her  hands  imploringly.  “ I 
repeat  it;  I love  Frederick  Schiller!” 

“ Well,  then,  love  Frederick  Schiller,  if  you  will,”  said  her 
ladyship,  with  a shrug  of  her  shoulders,  “ but  marry  Count 
Kunheim.  It  is  given  to  no  woman  to  marry  the  object  of 
her  first  love,  to  make  the  ideal  of  her  heart  her  husband. 
You  will  only  share  the  common  lot  of  woman;  you  will  have 


MARIE  VON  ARNIM. 


259 


to  renounce  your  first  love  and  make  a sensible  marriage.  I 
can  tell  you,  however,  for  your  consolation,  that  marriages  of 
the  latter  sort  generally  prove  much  happier  in  the  sequel 
than  these  moneyless  love-marriages.  When  hunger  stalks  in 
at  the  door  love  files  out  at  the  window.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  most  lovelorn  and  desolate  heart  will  finally  recover,  when 
given  a daily  airing  in  a carriage-and-four.  Drive  in  your 
carriage,  and  accord  me  a seat  in  it;  I am  weary.  I have 
been  travelling  life-long  on  the  stony  streets,  and  my  feet  are 
wounded ! Marie,  I entreat  you,  my  child,  take  pity  on  the 
poor  mother,  who  has  suffered  so  much,  take  pity  on  the 
brother,  who  must  give  up  his  career  in  life,  unless  we  can 
give  him  some  assistance.  He  would  be  compelled  to  leave 
the  army,  and  perhaps  his  only  resource  would  be  to  hire  him- 
self  out  as  a copyist  to  some  lawyer,  in  order  to  earn  a sub- 
sistence. Marie,  dear  Marie,  I entreat  you,  take  pity  on  your 
family!  Our  happiness  is  in  your  hands!” 

She  made  no  reply,  she  was  still  on  her  knees,  had  covered 
her  countenance  with  her  hands,  and  was  weeping  bitterly. 
Her  mother  gazed  down  upon  her  without  an  emotion  of  pity, 
her  broad,  fieshy  face  and  little  gray  eyes  expressed  no  sym- 
pathy whatever. 

“Be  reasonable,  Marie,”  said  her  ladyship,  after  a short 
interval,  “ consider  the  happiness  of  your  mother  and  brother, 
rather  than  the  momentary  caprice  of  your  heart.  Cast  aside 
these  dreams,  this  sensitiveness,  and  seek  your  own  happiness 
in  that  of  your  family.” 

“ It  shall  be  as  you  say,”  said  Marie,  rising  slowly  from  her 
knees.  “ I will  sacrifice  my  own  happiness  for  your  sake,  but 
I make  one  condition.” 

“ And  that  is — ?” 

“ That  all  these  little  mysteries  and  intrigues  be  dis- 
continued, and  Schiller  be  told  the  whole  truth.  No  more 
signs  are  to  be  given  requesting  him  not  to  come ; he  is  no 
longer  to  be  made  use  of  and  yet  denied  at  the  same  time. 
He  must  not  be  permitted  to  hope  that  his  addresses  will  be 


860 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


accepted;  he  must  learn  that  they  will  be  rejected.  If  he 
should  then  still  desire  to  visit  us,  our  door  must  be  open  to 
him  at  all  times,  and  the  light  must  never  be  placed  in  my 
window  again  to  warn  him  off.  This  is  my  condition.  Ac- 
cept it,  and  I am  ready  to  cover  my  face  with  a mask,  and 
play  the  role  which  the  necessities  of  life  compel  me  to 
assume.” 

“I  will  accept  it,”  replied  Madame  von  Arnim,  “although 
I consider  it  very  impolitic.  Schiller’s  nature  is  violent, 
easily  excited,  and  deficient  in  that  aristocratic  cultivation 
which  represses  all  the  movements  of  natural  impulse.  For 
instance,  if  he  should  come  here  this  evening,  a very  disagree- 
able scene  might  ensue;  he  would  be  capable  of  reproaching 
me  or  yourself  quite  regardless  of  the  presence  of  others.” 

“And  he  could  reproach  us  with  justice,”  sighed  Marie, 
“ I am  resolved  rather  to  bear  his  anger  than  to  deceive  him 
any  longer.” 

“ But  I am  not,”  rejoined  her  ladyship,  “ I have  a perfect 
horror  of  these  scenes  dramatiques.  But  you  will  have  it  so, 
you  made  it  your  condition,  and  nothing  remains  for  me  but 
to  accept  it.  And  now,  be  discreet,  be  sensible;  induce 
Count  Kunheim  to  declare  himself  this  evening,  if  possible, 
in  order  that  Schiller  may  hear  of  your  betrothal  as  a fait 
accompli'' 

“I  will  do  your  bidding,”  said  Marie,  with  a sad  and  yet 
proud  smile.  “ Give  yourself  no  further  care,  the  sweet  dream 
is  at  end,  I have  awakened.  It  is  a sad  awakening,  and  I 
will  have  to  weep  a great  deal,  but  my  tears  shall  not  accuse 
you ; if  I am  unhappy,  I will  not  say  that  you  were  the  cause 
of  my  unhappiness.  It  was  God’s  will,  this  shall  be  my  con- 
solation; God  wills  it  and  I submit!” 

“ And  you  do  well,  and  will  live  to  thank  me  for  having 
prevented  you  from  becoming  the  wife  of  a poor  German 
poet.  And  now,  that  we  have  disposed  of  this  disagreeable 
affair,  come  to  my  heart,  my  daughter,  and  give  me  a kiss  of 
reconciliation.” 


MARIE  VON  ARNIM. 


261 


But,  instead  of  throwing  herself  into  her  mother’s  extended 
arms,  Marie  drew  back.  “No,”  said  she,  “do  not  kiss  me 
now,  mother;  we  could  only  exchange  a Judas  kiss.  Come, 
give  me  your  hand,  mother,  and  let  us  go  to  the  parlor  to 
receive  our  guests.  Let  us,  however,  first  extinguish  this 
candle.” 

“ Yes,  we  will,  or  rather  I will  carry  it  with  me  to  the 
kitchen,  where  a little  more  light  would  not  be  amiss,”  said 
her  ladyship,  taking  the  candle  from  the  bureau.  “ Go  to  the 
parlor,  my  daughter,  and  receive  our  guests,  I must  first  go 
to  the  kitchen  to  see  if  every  thing  is  in  order.” 

They  both  left  the  chamber;  Marie  repaired  to  the  parlor, 
and  her  mother  passed  on  to  the  kitchen,  to  see  if  the  new 
grocer  had  furnished  the  butter  and  sugar.  To  her  great 
relief,  she  learned  that  he  had,  and,  elated  by  this  success,  she 
determined  to  send  to  the  accommodating  grocer  for  a few 
bottles  of  wine  to  replace  the  broken  ones.  Nothing  more 
was  now  wanting  for  the  completion  of  her  soiree ! She  has- 
tily gave  the  cook  a few  instructions,  and  then  returned  to  the 
bedchamber  with  the  candle. 

“He  must  not  come  this  evening,”  said  her  ladyship  to 
herself ; “ he  might  frustrate  the  whole  plan,  for  Marie  is 
transformed  into  another  being  in  his  presence,  and  Count 
Kunheim  would  not  fail  to  observe  that  she  did  not  love  him. 
No,  the  light  must  be  burning — Schiller  must  be  kept  away. 
As  the  rich  Countess  Kunheim,  Marie  will  some  day  thank 
me  for  not  having  kept  my  promise.  Yes,  she  certainly  will !” 

She  hastened  forward  to  the  window  and  placed  the  light 
in  a conspicuous  place.  But  what  was  that!  At  this  mo- 
ment, a loud  peal  of  laughter  resounded  in  the  narrow  street 
beneath  the  window — a peal  of  laughter  that  was  so  bitter,  so 
mocking,  that  it  startled  even  her  ladyship’s  fearless  heart; 
it  seemed  almost  like  a threat. 

Her  ladyship  now  repaired  to  the  parlor  to  receive  her 
guests,  who  had  begun  to  arrive,  and  this  disagreeable  sen- 
sation was  soon  forgotten.  Madame  von  Arnim  greeted  each 


262 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


one  of  her  guests  with  the  same  stereotyped  smile — the  same 
polite  phrases.  She  quietly  conducted  the  few  old  ladies,  who 
had  been  invited  to  give  dignity  to  the  occasion,  into  the 
adjoining  boudoir,  and  recruited  an  invalid  major  to  play 
whist  with  them.  And  now,  after  having  satisfactorily  dis- 
posed of  these  guests,  and  rendered  their  gossiping  tongues 
harmless,  she  returned  to  the  parlor,  and  displayed  to  the 
assembled  officers  and  cavaliers  the  smiling,  pleasant  coun- 
tenance of  a lady  who  is  ready  to  become  a loving  and  tender 
mother-in-law. — For  propriety’s  sake,  a few  young  women 
had  also  been  invited,  having  small  pretensions  to  good  looks, 
and  of  modest  attire ; such  ladies  as  are  commonly  termed 
friends,  and  who  are  nothing  more  than  the  setting  which 
gives  additional  lustre  to  the  gem.  To  entertain  these  friends 
was  the  mission  of  the  second-lieutenants,  while  the  officers 
of  higher  rank  and  the  wealthy  cavaliers  congregated  around 
the  goddess  of  their  adoration — the  lovely  Marie  von  Arnim. 

She  was  now  once  more  the  radiant  beauty;  her  coun- 
tenance was  rosy  and  joyous,  her  blue  eyes  were  bright  and 
clear,  and  bore  no  evidence  of  the  tears  which  had  flowed  back 
to  her  heart.  A smile  played  about  her  rosy  lips,  and  merry, 
jesting  words  escaped  the  mouth  which  but  now  had  uttered 
wails  and  lamentations.  Count  Ehrhard  von  Kunheim  was 
completely  captivated  by  her  grace  and  beauty ; his  gaze  was 
fastened  immovably  on  her  lovely  countenance.  The  homage 
she  received  from  all  sides  was  a flattering  tribute  to  the  lady 
of  his  choice — the  lady  he  now  flrmly  resolved  to  make  his 
bride.  It  was  very  pleasant  to  see  his  future  wife  the  object 
of  so  much  adoration.  He  would  gladly  have  seen  the  whole 
world  at  her  feet,  for  then  his  triumph  would  have  been  so 
much  greater  in  seeing  himself  favored  above  all  the  world. 

lie  gazed  proudly  at  the  array  of  rank  by  which  his  love 
was  surrounded;  the  expressions  of  admiration  were  sweet 
music  in  his  car.  He  mentally  determined  to  address  her 
this  very  evening;  in  a few  brief  hours  it  would  be  in  his 
power  to  cry  out  to  his  rivals:  The  lovely  Marie  von  Arnim 


MARIE  VON  ARNIM. 


263 


is  mine!  She  is  my  bride!’*  How  great,  how  glorious  a 
triumph  would  that  be ! It  was  a pity  that  he  was  not  pres- 
ent ! To  have  carried  off  this  prize  before  him  would  have 
crowned  his  triumph. 

“Miss  Marie,”  asked  the  count,  interrupting  the  joyous 
conversation  which  she  was  carrying  on  with  several  officers, 
“ you  have  graciously  promised  to  make  me  acquainted  with 
your  protege,  Mr.  Schiller?  Is  he  likely  to  come  this  even- 
ing?” 

The  smile  faded  from  her  lips,  the  lustre  of  her  eyes  was 
dimmed,  and  she  looked  anxiously  around,  as  if  seeking  help. 
Her  eyes  met  the  keen,  threatening  glance  of  her  mother, 
who  at  once  came  forward  to  her  assistance ; she  felt  that  es- 
cape was  no  longer  possible — the  hand  of  fate  had  fallen  upon 
her. 

“I  fear  Councillor  Schiller  is  not  coming,”  said  her  lady- 
ship, in  her  complacent  manner. 

“No,  he  is  not  coming,”  repeated  Marie,  mechanically. 
Kegrets,  and  many  praises  of  the  genial  poet  they  so  much 
admired,  and  whose  latest  poems  were  so  charming,  now  re- 
sounded from  all  sides. 

“ It  is  really  a pity  that  you  have  never  been  able  to  gratify 
us  by  producing  this  celebrated  poet,”  said  Count  Kunheim 
to  the  beautiful  Marie. 

With  a forced  smile,  she  replied,  “Yes,  it  is  really  a pity.” 

“And  why  is  he  not  coming?”  asked  several  gentlemen  of 
Madame  von  Arnim.  “ Pray  tell  us,  why  is  it  this  councillor 
only  comes  when  you  are  alone,  and  is  certain  of  meeting  no 
company  here?” 

“He  avoids  mankind,  as  the  owl  does  the  light,”  replied 
her  ladyship,  smiling.  “We  gave  him  our  solemn  promise 
that  we  would  not  receive  other  visitors  when  he  is  with  us; 
we  promised,  moreover,  that  we  would  let  him  know  when  we 
had  company  in  the  evening  by  giving  him  a signal.” 

“And  do  you  really  give  him  the  signal,  my  lady?”  asked 
Count  Kunheim. 


264 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


“Yes,  we  do,”  replied  Marie,  in  a low  voice. 

“ And  may  I ask  in  what  the  signal  consists  that  announces 
to  the  man-fearing  poet  that  other  mortals  have  approached 
his  goddess?” 

“It  is  no  secret,”  said  Madame  von  Arnim.  “ I will  tell 
you,  count.  The  signal  is  a lighted  candle  placed  at  the  win- 
dow of  our  dressing-room.  When  he  sees  this  light,  he  beat3 
a retreat,  and  turns  his  back  on  our  house.” 

“Will  he  come  if  no  light  is  burning  for  him?”  inquired 
Count  Kunheim,  quickly. 

“He  will,”  replied  Madame  von  Arnim,  laughing. 

“ Therefore,  if  no  light  should  burn  in  the  window,  he 
would  come  this  evening?” 

“ Certainly  he  would.  He  vows  that  he  only  lives  and 
thinks  when  in  my  daughter’s  presence;  and  he  would  un- 
doubtedly have  come  this  evening  if  I had  not  given  him  the 
signal.” 

^^But,  mother,”  exclaimed  Marie,  “you  are  mistaken;  we 
did  not  give  the  signal  to-day.” 

“ Then,  as  you  gave  no  signal,  he  has  simply  declined  to 
avail  himself  of  your  invitation  for  this  evening,”  remarked 
Count  Kunheim. 

“ No,  no,  count,  he  has  not  come,  because  I gave  the 
signal.” 

“Not  so,  my  lady,”  observed  a cold,  quiet  voice  behind 
her;  “true,  you  gave  the  signal,  but  he  has  come  neverthe- 
less.” 

“Schiller!”  exclaimed  Marie,  turning  pale,  and  yet  she 
smiled  and  her  eyes  sparkled.  She  was  on  the  point  of  hasten- 
ing forward  with  extended  hands  to  meet  him,  but  her  mother 
had  already  interposed  her  colossal  figure  between  her  and  the 
poet,  and  was  gazing  at  him  defiantly,  as  if  to  signify  her 
readiness  to  take  up  the  gauntlet  if  he  should  meditate  war- 
fare. 

“ You  are  heartily  welcome.  Councillor  Schiller,”  said  she, 
in  dulcet  tones.  “ We  feel  highly  honored  and  are  partic- 


MARIE  VON  ARNIM. 


265 


ularly  pleased  to  have  you  join  us  at  last  on  an  evening  when 
we  have  company.  These  gentlemen  will  all  be  delighted  to 
make  your  acquaintance.  We  were  speaking  of  you  when  you 
entered,  and  all  were  regretting  that  you  were  not  here,  and — ” 
Of  that  I am  aware,’'  said  Schiller,  interrupting  her.  “ I 
had  been  standing  in  the  doorway  for  some  time,  but  you 
were  conversing  so  eagerly  that  no  one  noticed  my  presence. 
I saw  and  heard  all.” 

Schiller’s  voice  trembled  while  uttering  these  words,  and 
his  countenance  was  deathly  pale. 

“ Then  you  heard  us  all  express  an  ardent  desire  to  make 
your  acquaintance,”  said  Count  Kunheim,  stepping  forward. 

I esteem  myself  highly  fortunate  in  being  able  to  gratify 
this  desire.  Permit  me  to  introduce  myself.  I am  Count 
von  Kunheim.” 

Schiller  did  not  seem  to  observe  the  count’s  extended  hand, 
and  bowed  stiffly ; he  then  looked  over  toward  the  window- 
niche,  to  which  Marie  had  withdrawn,  and  where  she  stood 
trembling,  her  heart  throbbing  wildly.  How  angry,  reproach- 
ful, and  contemptuous,  was  the  glance  he  fastened  on  her 
countenance ! But  his  lips  were  mute,  and  as  he  now  with- 
drew his  gaze,  he  erected  his  head  proudly,  and  a derisive 
smile  quivered  on  his  thin,  compressed  lips.  With  this  smile 
he  turned  to  the  gentlemen  again,  and  greeted  them  with  a 
haughty  inclination  of  his  head,  like  a king  who  is  receiving 
the  homage  of  his  subjects.  “ You  expressed  a desire  to  see 
me,  gentlemen,  I am  here.  The  conversation  which  I over- 
heard, compelled  me  to  show  myself  for  a moment,  in  order  to 
correct  a little  error  imparted  to  you  by  Madame  von  Arnim.” 

“An  error?”  said  her  ladyship,  in  some  confusion. 
“ Really,  Mr.  Schiller,  I am  at  a loss  to  understand  exactly 
your  meaning.” 

“I  will  make  myself  understood,  Madame  von  Arnim. 
You  told  these  gentlemen  that  I avoided  mankind  as  the  owl 
avoids  the  light.  But  this  is  not  the  case,  and  I beg  these 
gentlemen  not  to  credit  this  statement.  I do  not  avoid  man- 


266 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


kind,  and  I do  not  hate  my  fellow-creatures,  but  I love  them. 
I love  and  revere  the  human  countenance,  for  the  spirit  of 
God  is  reflected  in  the  human  eye.  I love  my  fellow-creatures, 
and  although  they  have  sometimes  caused  me  pain,  and  rudely 
awakened  me  from  my  dreams  of  happiness,  yet,  my  faith  in 
humanity  is  unshaken,  and — 

Oh,  Schiller,'' cried  Marie,  stepping  forward  from  the 
window-niche,  and  no  longer  able  to  conceal  her  agitation, 
Schiller,  give  me  your  hand,  tell  me — " 

“Miss  von  Arnim,"  said  he,  interrupting  her,  “ I have 
nothing  to  say  to  you,  I only  desire  to  speak  to  these  gentle- 
men! I do  not  wish  you  to  consider  me  a foolish  misan- 
thrope, gentlemen,  and  therefore,  I take  the  liberty  of  cor- 
recting a second  erroneous  statement  made  by  Madame  von 
Arnim.  She  told  you  that  I had  exacted  of  her  the  promise, 
to  warn  me  by  a signal-light  when  the  ladies  were  entertain- 
ing company,  because  social  intercourse  was  burdensome 
and  repugnant  to  me.  This  is,  however,  not  the  case,  but 
exactly  the  reverse.  These  ladies,  and  particularly  Miss 
Marie  von  Arnim  requested  me  to  come  here  only  when  the 
window  was  dark,  and  on  the  other  hand  never  to  visit  them 
when  I saw  a light  in  the  window.  Miss  von  Arnim — " 

“Schiller,"  said  she,  interrupting  him,  in  a loud  and  trem- 
bling voice,  and  laying  her  hand  on  his  arm,  “ Schiller,  I 
conjure  you,  go  no  further!" 

“Miss  von  Arnim  also  explained  to  me  why  she  desired 
this,"  continued  Schiller,  as  though  he  had  not  heard  Marie’s 
imploring  voice,  as  though  he  did  not  feel  the  pressure  of  her 
trembling  hand.  “ Miss  von  Arnim  told  me  that  on  the 
evenings  in  which  the  signal  would  be  given  the  circle  of  her 
mother’s  nearest  relatives  would  be  assembled  in  the  house, 
in  which  circle  it  was  impossible  to  introduce  a stranger. 
Gentlemen,  it  affords  me  great  pleasure  to  recognize  in  you 
the  dear  cousins  and  uncles  of  this  young  lady,  and  I congrat- 
ulate her  on  her  brilliant  and  exclusive  family  party.  And 
now  permit  me  to  explain  why  I dared  to  enter  this  house, 


MARIE  VON  ARNIM. 


267 


although  the  light  displayed  in  the  window  proclaimed  the 
presence  of  the  family.” 

“But  there  was  no  light  at  the  window,”  exclaimed  Marie, 
eagerly ; “ this  is  an  error ! I desired  that  you  should  come 
this  evening,  and  on  that  account  it  was  expressly  understood 
between  my  mother  and  myself  that  no — ” 

“The  light  was  there,”  said  her  ladyship,  interrupting 
her;  “I  had  placed  it  there!  Be  still,  do  not  interrupt  the 
councillor;  he  said  he  had  something  to  explain. — Continue, 
sir ! Why  did  you  come,  although  the  light  was  displayed  in 
the  window?” 

“Because  I wished  to  know  what  it  really  meant,”  replied 
Schiller,  with  composure  and  dignity.  “You  see,  my  lady, 
I am  not  afraid  of  the  light,  and  I seek  the  truth,  although 
I must  admit  that  it  is  a painful  and  bitter  truth  that  I have 
learned  to-day.  But  man  must  have  the  courage  to  look  facts 
in  the  face,  even  if  it  were  the  head  of  the  Medusa.  I have 
seen  the  truth,  and  am  almost  inclined  to  believe  that  the 
eternal  gods  must  have  imparted  to  me  some  of  the  strength 
of  Perseus,  for,  as  you  see,  I have  not  been  transformed  into 
stone,  but  am  still  suffering.  And  now  that  I have  corrected 
her  ladyship’s  errors,  I humbly  beg  pardon  for  having  cast  a 
shadow  over  the  gayety  of  this  assembly.  It  will  certainly  be 
for  the  last  time!  Farewell,  ladies!” 

He  inclined  his  head  slightly,  but  did  not  cast  a single 
glance  at  the  lovely  Marie  von  Arnim ; he  did  not  see  her 
faint,  and  fall  into  Count  Kunheim’s  arms,  who  lifted  her 
tenderly  and  carried  her  to  the  sofa,  where  he  gently  de- 
posited his  precious  burden.  Nor  did  he  see  the  friends  rush 
forward  to  restore  the  insensible  young  lady  to  consciousness 
with  their  smelling-bottles  and  salts.  No,  Frederick  Schiller 
observed  nothing  of  all  this;  he  walked  through  the  parlor 
and  antechamber  toward  the  hall- door.  Near  the  door  stood 
the  ‘living  example,’  looking  up  with  an  expression  of  un- 
speakable admiration  at  the  tall  figure  of  the  poet,  who  had 
written  his  two  favorite  pieces,  “ The  Bobbers,”  and  “ Fiesco.” 

18 


268 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


He  was  so  grateful  to  the  poet  for  having  put  her  ladyship  to 
shame,  that  he  would  gladly  have  knelt  down  and  kissed  his  feet. 

“Oh,  Mr.  Schiller,  great  Mr.  Schiller,”  murmured  Leon- 
hard, hastening  forward  to  open  the  door,  “ you  are  not  the 
only  one  whom  she  has  deceived.  She  has  deceived  me  also ; 
I,  too,  am  a wretched  victim  of  her  cunning.  But  only  wait, 
sublime  poet,  only  wait;  I will  not  only  avenge  myself,  but 
you  also,  Mr.  Schiller.  I will  cut  the  pieces  still  larger,  and 
the  turkey  shall  not  go  half  around,  not  half  around ! I will 
avenge  both  myself  and  Schiller!” 

He  did  not  hear  a word  of  what  Leonhard  had  said,  for  he 
hurried  past  him,  down  the  steps,  and  out  into  the  street. 
There  he  stood  still  for  a moment  gazing  at  the  lighted  win- 
dows, until  a veil  of  unbidden  tears  darkened  his  vision.  The 
burning  tears  trickling  down  his  cheeks  aroused  him.  He 
shook  his  head  angrily,  and  pressed  his  clinched  hands  against 
his  eyes  to  drive  them  back;  not  another  tear  would  he  shed. 
Away ! Away  from  this  house  1 Away ! 


CHAPTER  IV. 

SOULS  IN  PURGATOKY. 

As  if  pursued  by  the  Furies,  with  uncovered  head,  his  yel- 
low locks  fluttering  in  the  wind,  he  rushed  onward  through 
the  streets,  over  the  long  Elbe  bridge,  past  the  golden  cru- 
ciflx,  which  towered  in  the  moonlight,  and  now  along  the 
river  bank  beneath  the  Brühl  Terrace,  following  the  river, 
and  listening  to  the  rippling  waves,  that  murmur  of  peace 
and  eternal  rest. 

The  moon  threw  golden  streaks  of  light  on  the  river,  and 
a long  shadow  on  its  bank,  the  shadow  of  the  poet,  who  was 
hurrying  on  in  grief  and  agony.  Where?  He  did  not  know, 
he  was  not  conscious  that  he  was  walking  on  the  verge  of  an 
open  grave;  he  was  only  instinctively  seeking  a solitude,  a 
retreat  where  the  ear  of  man  could  not  hear,  nor  the  eye  of 


SOULS  IN  PURGATORY. 


269 


man  see  him.  He  wished  to  be  alone  with  his  grief,  alone  in 
the  trying  hour  when  he  would  he  compelled  to  tear  the  fair 
blossom  from  his  heart,  and  tread  it  under  foot  as  though  it 
were  a poisonous  weed.  He  wished  to  be  alone  with  the  tears 
which  were  gushing  from  his  soul,  with  the  cries  of  agony 
that  escaped  his  quivering  lips — alone  in  the  great  and  solemn 
hour  when  the  poet  was  once  more  to  receive  the  baptism  of 
tears,  that  his  poetic  children,  his  poems,  might  be  nourished 
vith  the  blood  that  flowed  from  his  wounded  breast. 

He  had  now  entered  the  little  wood  which  at  that  time 
bkirted  the  river  bank  a few  hundred  yards  below  the  terrace. 
Its  darkness  and  silence  was  what  he  had  sought,  and  what  he 
needed.  Alone ! Alone  with  his  God  and  his  grief ! A loud 
cry  of  anguish  escaped  his  breast  and  must  have  awakened 
the  slumbering  birds.  The  foliage  of  the  trees  was  agitated 
by  a plaintive  whispering  and  murmuring,  as  though  the  birds 
were  saying  to  the  moonbeams : Here  is  a man  who  is  suffer- 
ing, who  is  wrestling  with  his  agony!  Console  him  with  your 
golden  rays,  good  moon ; give  him  of  your  peace,  starry  sum- 
mer eve!’' 

Perhaps  the  moon  heard  the  plaintive  appeal  of  the  birds 
and  the  spirits  of  the  night,  for  at  this  moment  it  broke  forth 
from  the  concealing  clouds  and  showed  its  mild,  luminous 
countenance,  and  ierced  the  forest  with  its  golden  beams, 
seeking  him  who  had  disturbed  the  peace  of  slumbering  Nature 
with  the  agonized  cry  of  his  wakeful,  tormenting  grief. 

There  he  lies,  stretched  out  like  a corpse,  or  like  one  in  a 
trance.  But  the  moon  sees  that  he  is  not  dead,  not  uncon- 
scious, and  sadly  witnesses  the  tears  trickling  down  his  coun- 
tenance,  and  hears  his  sobs  and  wails,  the  wails  of  the  genius 
suffering  after  the  manner  of  humanity ; and  yet  the  spirit  of 
God  dwells  in  his  exalted  mind,  and  will  give  him  strength 
to  overcome  this  grief. 

The  night  sheds  a soft  light  on  his  tearful  countenance,  as 
though  it  greeted  him  with  a heavenly  smile ; and  the  stars 
stand  still  and  twinkle  their  greetings  to  the  poet.  The  mel- 


270 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


ody  of  the  birds  is  hushed,  and  they  listen  in  the  foliage,  as 
though  they  understood  his  lamentations.  Schiller  had  now 
raised  his  head;  the  stillness  and  solitude  of  the  night  had 
cooled  the  burning  fever  of  his  soul. 

Is  it  then  true,  am  I destined  only  to  suffer  and  to  be  de- 
ceived? Years  roll  on  and  I have  not  yet  enjoyed  the  golden 
fruits  that  life  promises  to  man,  the  golden  fruits  of  Arcadia. 
My  heart  was  filled  with  such  joyous  anticipations,  my  soul 
longed  for  these  fruits.  Although  the  spring-time  of  my  life 
has  hardly  begun,  its  blossoms  have  already  withered.  All  is 
vanity  and  illusion ! Falsehood  alone  can  make  men  happy, 
truth  kills  them  like  God’s  lightning!  I have  looked  thee  in 
the  face  again  to-day.  Truth,  thou  relentless  divinity,  and  my 
heart  burns  in  pain,  and  my  soul  is  filled  with  agony.  The 
poet  is  a prophet,  my  present  condition  proves  it;  what  the 
poet  in  me  sung,  the  poor  child  of  humanity  now  experi- 
ences; my  sufferings  are  boundless.’' 

He  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  the  moon  saw  the  tears 
which  trickled  out  from  between  his  fingers,  and  heard  the 
poet’s  plaintive,  trembling  voice  break  in  upon  the  stillness 
of  the  night  like  the  soft  tones  of  an  ^olian  harp : 

“ Ich  zahle  Dir  in  einem  andren  Leben, 

Gieb  Deine  Jugend  mir! 

Nichts  kann  ich  Dir  als  diese  Weisung  geben. 

Ich  nahm  die  Weisung  auf  das  andre  Leben 
Und  meiner  Jugend  Freuden  gab  ich  ihr! 

Gieb  mir  das  Weib,  so  theuer  Deinem  Herzen  1 
Gieb  Deine  Laura  mir  1 

Jenseit  des  Grabes  wuchern  Deine  Schmerzen  1 
Ich  riss  sie  blutend  aus  dem  wunden  Herzen, 

Ich  weinte  laut  und  gab  sie  ihr!  ” * 

* “ I will  repay  thee  in  a hoher  land — 

Give  thou  to  me  thy  youth; 

All  I can  grant  thee  lies  in  this  command. 

I heard,  and,  trusting  in  a holier  land, 

Gave  my  young  joys  to  Truth. 

Give  me  thy  Laura — Give  me  her  whom  love 
To  thy  heart’s  core  endears; 

The  usurer  bliss  pays  every  grief — above ! 

I tore  the  fond  shape  from  the  bleeding  love 
And  gave — albeit  with  tears.” 

Sir  E.  B.  Lytton'^s  Schillef'. 


SOULS  IN  PURGATORY. 


271 


“And  gave — albeit  with  tears!’'  repeated  Schiller  once 
more,  and  a cry  of  anguish  escaped  his  breast.  “ Is  it  then 
inevitable?  Is  man  born  only  to  suffer,  and  are  those  right 
who  assert  that  life  is  only  a vale  of  sorrow,  and  not  worth 
enduring?” 

He  seemed  to  be  painfully  meditating  on  this  question» 
Nature  held  its  breath,  awaiting  his  answer;  even  the  birds 
had  ceased  chirping,  and  the  wind  no  longer  dared  to  rustle 
in  the  tree-tops.  In  what  tones  will  the  ^olian  harp  of  the 
soul  respond?  What  reply  will  the  poet  make  to  the  question 
propounded  by  the  man? 

He  looks  up  at  the  bright  firmament  shedding  its  peaceful 
beams  upon  his  head ; he  looks  at  the  stars,  and  they  smile 
on  him.  There  is  something  in  him  that  bids  defiance  to  all 
sorrow  and  melancholy.  A soft,  heavenly,  and  yet  strong 
voice  resounds  in  his  soul  like  the  mysterious  manifestation 
of  the  Divinity  itself.  He  listens  to  this  voice ; the  pinions 
of  his  soul  no  longer  droop;  he  rises,  stretches  out  his  arms 
towards  the  moon  and  the  stars,  and  his  soul  soars  heavenward 
and  revels  in  the  glories  of  the  universe. 

“No,”  he  exclaimed,  in  loud  and  joyous  tones,  “no,  the 
earth  is  no  vale  of  sorrow,  it  is  the  garden  of  the  Almighty. 
No,  life  is  no  bauble  to  be  lightly  thrown  away;  the  sufferings 
life  entails  must  be  endured  and  overcome.  Give  me  strength 
to  overcome  them,  thou  indwelling  spirit ; illumine  the  dark- 
ness of  my  human  soul,  thou  fiame  of  God,  holy  poetry!  No, 
it  were  unworthy  the  dignity,  unworthy  the  honor  of  man- 
hood, to  bow  the  head  under  the  yoke  of  sorrow,  and  become 
the  slave  of  melancholy  for  the  sake  of  a faithless  woman.  A 
greeting  to  you,  you  golden  lights  of  the  heavens ! you  shall 
not  look  down  on  me  with  pity,  but  with  proud  sympathy ! 
I am  a part  of  the  great  spirit  who  created  you,  am  spirit  of 
the  spirit  of  God,  am  lord  of  the  earth.  Down  with  you,  sor- 
rows of  earth!  down  with  you,  scorpions!  I will  set  my  foot 
on  your  head,  and  triumph  over  you.  You  shall  have  no 
power  over  me.  I am  a man;  who  is  more  so?” 


272 


GOETHE  AND  SCIJILLER. 


And  exultantly  and  triumphantly  he  once  more  cried  out 
to  the  night  and  the  heavens:  “ I am  a man!” 

It  was  not  the  sky  which  now  illumined  his  countenance, 
it  was  the  proud  smile  of  victory;  the  light  in  his  eyes  was 
not  the  reflection  of  the  stars,  but  the  brave  courage  of  the 
soul  which  had  elevated  itself  above  the  dust  of  the  earth. 

‘‘  The  struggle  is  over,  grief  is  overcome ! I greet  thee, 
thou  peaceful  tranquil  night,  thou  hast  applied  the  healing 
balsam  to  my  wounded  breast : and  all  pain  will  soon  have 
vanished!” 

He  turned  homeward,  and  walked  rapidly  through  the 
wood  and  along  the  river  bank,  which  was  here  and  there 
skirted  with  clumps  of  bushes  and  shrubbery. 

Suddenly  he  stood  still  and  listened.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  he  had  heard  the  despairing  cry  of  a human  voice  be- 
hind some  bushes,  close  to  the  river  bank.  Yes,  he  had  not 
been  mistaken,  he  could  now  hear  the  voice  distinctly. 

Schiller  slowly  and  noiselessly  approached  the  clump  of 
bushes  from  behind  which  the  voice  had  seemed  to  proceed; 
he  bent  the  twigs  aside,  and,  peering  through  the  foliage, 
listened. 

He  beheld  a strange  sight.  He  saw  before  him  the  river 
with  its  rippling  waves,  and,  on  its  narrow  bank,  kneeling  in 
the  full  moonlight,  a human  form — a youth  whose  coun- 
tenance was  pale  and  emaciated,  and  whose  long  black  hair 
fluttered  in  the  breeze.  His  features  were  distorted  with 
anguish,  and  the  tears  which  poured  down  his  hollow  cheeks 
sparkled  in  the  light  like  diamonds.  He  was  partially  un- 
dressed, and  his  coat,  hat,  and  a book,  which,  to  judge  from 
its  size  and  shape,  appeared  to  be  a Bible,  lay  at  his  side  on 
the  sand.  The  youth  had  raised  his  bare  arms  toward  heaven, 
his  hands  were  clasped  together  convulsively,  and  in  his  agony 
his  voice  trembled  as  he  uttered  these  words: 

“ I can  no  longer  endure  life.  Forgive  me,  0 God  in 
heaven,  but  I cannot!  Thou  knowest  what  my  struggles  have 
been ! Thou  knowest  that  I have  tried  to  live — tried  to  bid 


SOm^S  IN  PURGATORY. 


273 


defiance  to  the  torments  which  lacerate  my  soul!  Thou 
knowest  how  many  nights  I have  passed  on  my  knees,  entreat- 
ing Thee  to  send  down  a ray  of  mercy  on  my  head,  to  show 
me  an  issue  out  of  this  night  of  despair!  But  it  was  not  Thy 
will.  Almighty  Father!  Thou  hast  not  taken  pity  on  the 
poor  worm  that  writhed  in  the  dust,  on  the  beggar  who 
stretched  out  his  hands  to  Thee,  imploring  alms!  Then, 
pardon  me  at  least,  and  receive  me  in  Thy  mercy ! I am 
about  to  return  to  Thee;  0 God,  receive  me  graciously!  And 
thou,  thou  hard,  cruel,  joyless  world,  thou  vale  of  affliction, 
a curse  upon  thee — the  curse  of  a dying  mortal  who  has  re- 
ceived nothing  but  torment  at  thy  hands!  Farewell,  and — ” 

He  arose  from  his  knees,  and  rushed  forward  with  extended 
arms  toward  the  deep,  silent  grave  that  lay  there  ready  to 
receive  him.  Suddenly  a strong  hand  held  him  as  in  a vice, 
he  was  drawn  back  and  hurled  to  the  ground  at  the  water’s 
edge.  It  seemed  to  him  that  a giant  stood  before  him — a 
giant  whose  golden  locks  were  surrounded  by  a halo,  whose 
eyes  sparkled,  and  whose  countenance  glowed  with  noble 
anger. 

“ Suicide,”  thundered  a mighty  voice,  “who  gives  you  the 
right  to  murder  him  whom  God  has  created ! Felon,  mur- 
derer, fall  on  your  knees  in  the  dust  and  pray  to  God  for 
mercy  and  forgiveness!” 

“I  have  prayed  to  God  for  weeks  and  months,”  murmured 
the  trembling  youth,  writhing  in  the  dust,  and  not  daring  to 
look  up  at  the  luminous  apparition  that  hovered  over  him  like 
God’s  avenging  angel.  “ It  was  all  in  vain.  No  ray  of  light 
illumined  the  night  of  my  sufferings.  I wish  to  die,  because 
I can  no  longer  endure  life ! I flee  to  death  to  seek  relief 
from  the  hunger  that  has  been  gnawing  at  my  vitals  for  four 
days,  and  has  made  of  the  man  a wild  animal!  I — ” 

His  wailing  voice  was  silent,  his  limbs  no  longer  quivered; 
when  Schiller  knelt  down  at  his  side,  he  saw  that  his  features 
^ere  stiffened  and  that  his  eyes  were  widely  extended  and  . 
glassy. 


274 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


Schiller  laid  his  ear  on  the  unfortunate  man’s  breast  and 
felt  his  pulse.  His  heart  was  not  beating ; his  pulse  no  longer 
throbbed. 

“ It  is  only  a swoon,  nothing  else ; death  cannot  ensue  so 
quickly  unless  preceded  by  spasms.  Poor  unfortunate,  for- 
give me  for  calling  you  back  to  the  torment  of  existence;  but 
we  are  men,  and  must  not  violate  the  laws  of  Nature.  I must 
awaken  you,  poor  youth!” 

He  stretched  out  his  hands  to  the  river,  filled  them  with 
water,  and  poured  it  on  his  pale  forehead,  and,  as  he  still  lay 
motionless,  he  rubbed  his  forehead  and  breast  with  his  hands, 
and  breathed  his  own  breath  into  his  open  mouth. 

Slowly  life  dawned  again,  a ray  of  consciousness  returned 
to  the  glassy  eyes,  and  the  trembling  lips  murmured  a low 
wail,  which  filled,  the  poet’s  soul  with  sadness,  and  his  eyes 
with  tears  of  sympathy. 

There  lay  the  image  of  God,  quivering  in  agony;  the  most 
pitiful  complaint  of  the  human  creature  was  the  anxious  cry 
of  the  awakening  human  soul,  “ I am  hungry ! I am  hungry !” 

“And  I have  nothing  to  allay  his  hunger  with,”  said  Schil- 
ler, anxiously;  “nothing  with  which  to  make  a man  of  this 
animal.” 

“ Woe  is  me,”  groaned  the  youth,  “this  torment  is  fearful! 
Why  did  you  call  me  back  to  my  sufferings?  Who  gave  you 
the  right  to  forbid  me  to  die?” 

“Who  gave  you  the  right  to  die?”  asked  Schiller,  with 
severity. 

“Hunger,”  groaned  the  youth,  “hunger,  with  its  scorpion 
teeth ! If  you  compel  me  to  live,  then  give  me  the  bread  of 
life!  Bread!  Give  me  bread!  See,  I beg  for  bread!  I 
preferred  to  die  rather  than  beg,  but  you  have  conquered  me 
and  bowed  my  head  in  the  dust,  and  now  I am  a beggar! 
Give  me  bread!  Do  not  let  me  starve!” 

“ I will  bring  you  bread,”  said  Schiller,  mildly.  “ But,  no, 
you  might  avail  yourself  of  my  absence  to  accomplish  your 
dark  purpose.  Swear  that  you  will  remain  here  until  I return. 


SOULS  IN  PURGATORY. 


275 


The  unfortunate  youth  did  not  reply ; when  Schiller  again 
knelt  down  at  his  side,  he  saw  that  he  was  again  in  a 
swoon. 

“When  he  awakens,  I will  have  returned,''  murmured 
Schiller.  He  arose,  and  ran  rapidly  to  the  little  inn  that 
stood  at  the  foot  of  Brühls’s  Terrace.  To  his  great  joy,  a 
light  was  still  burning  in  the  main  room,  and,  when  he  en- 
tered, several  guests  were  still  sitting  at  the  table  enjoying 
their  pipes  and  beer.  Schiller  stepped  up  to  the  counter,  pur- 
chased a loaf  of  bread  and  a bottle  of  wine,  and  returned  with 
all  possible  haste  to  the  unfortunate  youth,  who  had  resumed 
consciousness,  and  was,  at  the  moment  of  his  arrival,  painfully 
endeavoring  to  raise  his  head. 

Schiller  knelt  down,  and  rested  the  poor  youth’s  head  on 
his  knees.  “ Be  patient,  my  poor  friend,  I bring  relief,  I 
bring  bread!" 

How  hastily  did  his  trembling  hands  clutch  the  loaf,  and 
how  eagerly  did  they  carry  it  to  his  mouth!  How  radiant 
was  his  countenance  when  he  had  taken  a long  draught  from 
the  bottle  which  Schiller  held  to  his  pale  lips. 

The  poet  turned  away,  he  could  not  endure  this  painful 
sight.  Sadly  and  reproachfully  he  looked  upward. 

“ 0 God,  Thou  hast  made  Thy  world  so  rich ! There  is 
enough  to  provide  a bounteous  repast  for  all ! The  trees  are 
laden  with  fruits,  and  man  may  not  pluck  them ; the  bakeries 
are  filled  with  the  bread  of  life,  and  man  may  not  take, 
although  he  is  starving.  He  sinks  down  in  the  death  agony 
while  the  rich  usurer  drives  by  in  his  splendid  equipage,  and 
looks  down  proudly  and  contemptuously  upon  the  unhappy 
man  whose  only  crime  is  that  he  is  poor.  0 eternal,  divine 
Justice,  it  is  in  vain  that  I seek  thee  behind  the  clouds.  I 
look  for  thee  in  vain  in  the  palaces  of  the  rich,  and  in  the 
huts  of  the  poor!" 

“ Ah,  how  refreshing,  how  delightful  was  this  bread  and 
wine !"  sighed  the  unfortunate  youth.  “ You  are  my  saviour, 
you  have  freed  me  from  torment.  I thank  you ! Let  me  kiss 


276 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


this  merciful  hand! — You  will  not  permit  me,  you  withdraw 
it?  You  despise  me,  the  suicide,  the  coward?  You  have  a 
right  to  do  so!’' 

“No,”  said  Schiller,  gently,  “I  do  not  despise,  I pity  you. 
I also  have  suffered,  I also  have  felt  the  scorpion  stings  of 
poverty.  No,  I do  not  despise  you.  All  men  are  brothers, 
and  must  aid  one  another.  All  cares  are  sisters,  and  must 
console  one  another.  Speak  my  brother,  tell  me,  how  can  I 
aid  you?  Unburden  your  bosom  to  my  sister  soul,  and  I will 
try  to  console  you.” 

“ You  are  an  angel-messenger  from  God,”  sobbed  the  young 
man.  “ Your  lips  speak  the  first  words  of  sympathy  I have 
heard  for  long  months.  I could  bathe  your  feet  in  tears  of 
gratitude.  Yes,  rny  brother,  you  shall  hear  the  sad  history 
of  my  life,  and  then  you  will  peirhaps  justify,  perhaps  pardon, 
the  crime  I was  about  to  commit.  Oh,  my  brother!” 

Schiller  seated  himself  at  his  side  on  the  river  bank,  and 
the  pale  youth  rested  his  head  on  the  poet’s  proffered  shoul- 
der. A pause  ensued.  While  he  who  had  but  just  returned 
from  the  gates  of  death,  was  endeavoring  to  collect  his  con- 
fused and  wandering  thoughts,  the  voice  of  pity  was  resound- 
ing in  the  heart  of  him  who  had  been  stronger  than  his 
brother  in  the  hour  of  trial,  who  had  bid  defiance  to  mis- 
fortune, and  with  manly  fortitude  had  overcome  grief.  His 
heart  was  filled  with  sympathy  for  his  weaker  and  less  coura- 
geous brother,  who  had  desired  to  flee  from  life  because  his 
soul  lacked  the  pinions  which  had  borne  the  poet  aloft,  above 
the  dust  and  misery  of  earth. 

“ How  can  he  fly  to  whom  the  Almighty,  the  Omnipresent, 
has  not  given  the  pinions  of  enthusiasm?  He  must  crawl  in 
the  dust,  his  only  thought  is  the  gratification  of  his  animal 
instincts,  and  like  an  animal  he  must  live  and  perish.  For 
him  from  whom  God  withholds  this  heavenly  ray,  all  is  night 
and  darkness — no  stars  shine  for  him;  it  were  well  he  sought 
safety  in  tlie  silence  of  the  grave,  in  a cessation  of  torment! 
I tliank  Thee,  0 God,  for  the  strengtli  Thou  hast  given,  for 


SOULS  IN  PURGATORY. 


27? 


the  ray  of  light  Thou  hast  sent  down  to  illumine  my  dark 
path  in  life!’* 

These  words  did  not  pass  Schiller’s  lips,  they  were  only 
uttered  in  the  depths  of  his  soul.  He  looked  up  at  the  moon 
and  stars,  journeying  in  unchangeable  serenity  on  their 
heavenly  course.  “Smile  on,  smile  on!  Y'ou  know  nothing 
of  man’s  sufferings.  The  eternal  laws  have  marked  out  your 
course.  Why  not  ours,  too?  Why  not  man’s?  Why  must 
we  wander  in  the  desert  of  life,  seeking  happiness,  and  find- 
ing pain  only!  We  conceive  ourselves  to  be  godlike,  and  yet 
we  are  no  more  than  the  worm  that  writhes  in  the  dust,  and 
is  trodden  under  foot  by  the  careless  passer-by.’’ 

These  were  the  thoughts  that  passed  through  Schiller’s 
mind,  while  the  pale  youth  at  his  side  was  narrating,  in  a 
voice  often  interrupted  by  sobs  and  tears,  the  history  of  his 
sufferings. 

It  was  a simple,  unvarnished  story  of  that  suffering  and 
want  altogether  too  proud  to  seek  sympathy  or  relief.  A story 
such  as  we  might  daily  hear,  if  our  ears  were  open  to  the 
mute  pleadings  that  so  often  speak  to  us  in  the  pale,  care- 
worn countenances  of  our  fellow-travellers  in  the  journey  of 
life.  Why  repeat  what  is  as  old  as  the  world ! A shipwrecked 
life,  a shipwrecked  calling!  There  was  that  in  this  son  of 
poverty  which  urged  him  to  the  acquisition  of  knowledge ; 
he  believed  his  mind  endowed  with  treasures,  and  his  am- 
bitious heart  whispered : “You  will  one  day  be  a renowned 
preacher!  God  gave  you  inspiration;  inspiration  will  give 
you  the  words  with  which  to  move  the  hearts  of  men!”  He 
was  the  son  of  a poor  tailor,  but  his  father  looked  with  pride 
on  the  boy  who  always  brought  home  the  best  testimonials 
from  his  school,  and  who  was  held  up  to  the  other  scholars  as 
a model  of  diligence.  It  would  be  an  honor  for  the  whole 
family  if  the  tailor’s  son  should  become  a learned  man  and  a 
pastor.  All  that  the  parents  could  save  and  earn  by  hard 
work  they  willingly  devoted  to  the  education  of  their  son, 
that  he  might  become  a scholar,  and  the  pride  of  his  family. 


278 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


What  is  there,  that  is  glorious  and  beautiful,  which  parental 
love  does  not  hope  for,  and  prophesy  for  the  darling  son? 

Young  Theophilus  had  passed  his  examination  with  honor, 
and  had  repaired  to  the  university  in  Leipsic  to  continue  his 
studies  when  the  sad  intelligence  of  his  father’s  death  reached 
him,  summoning  him  back  to  Dresden,  to  his  mother’s  assist- 
ance. He  now  learned,  what  he,  the  student  who  had  lived 
only  in  his  books,  had  hitherto  had  no  knowledge  of  what- 
ever. He  learned  that  his  affectionate  father  had  contracted 
debts,  and  pawned  all  that  he  possessed,  in  order  that  his 
son’s  studies  might  be  promoted.  When  the  father  found  it 
no  longer  possible  to  assist  his  son,  he  had  died  of  grief. 
And  now  the  usurers  and  creditors  came  and  took  possession 
of  every  thing,  regardless  of  the  distressful  cries  of  the  un- 
happy mother,  and  the  protestations  of  her  despairing  son. 
The  law  awarded  them  all,  and  they  took  all ! Theophilus 
had  reason  to  esteem  it  almost  a blessing  when  his  mother 
followed  her  husband  to  the  grave  a short  time  afterward. 
In  the  hospital  of  the  Ursuline  Sisters,  he  had  at  least  found 
shelter  for  her,  and  six  days  afterward  she  found  rest  in  her 
last  abode  in  the  narrow  coffin  accorded  her  by  charity. 

But  where  was  a refuge  to  be  found  for  the  poor  son  who 
had  so  suddenly  been  driven  from  the  study  into  the  desert  of 
life,  where  he  could  find  no  oasis  in  which  to  refresh  himself 
and  rest  his  wearied  limbs?  At  first  he  refused  to  be  discour- 
aged, and  struggled  bravely.  So  little  is  needed  to  sustain 
life ! and  for  this  little  he  was  willing  to  give  all  the  knowl- 
edge acquired  by  honest  diligence.  He  applied  to  the  rich, 
to  the  learned,  to  artists;  he  offered  his  services,  he  wished  to 
give  instruction,  to  teach  children.  But,  where  were  his 
recommendations?  What  guaranties  had  he  to  offer?  The 
man  who  sought  work  was  taken  for  a beggar,  and  the  per- 
sons to  whom  he  applied  either  turned  their  backs  on  him,  or 
else  offered  a petty  gratuity!  This  he  invariably  rejected;  he 
wished  to  work,  he  was  not  a beggar.  His  unseasonable  pride 
was  ridiculed,  his  indignation  called  beggar  insolence!  Long 


SOULS  IN  PURGATORY. 


279 


days  of  struggling,  of  hunger,  and  of  humiliations;  long 
nights  without  shelter,  rest,  or  refreshment!  This  little 
wood,  on  the  river  bank,  had  been  his  bedchamber  for  a long 
time.  Here,  on  the  bed  of  moss,  accorded  him  by  Nature, 
he  had  struggled  with  despair,  feeling  that  it  was  gradually 
entwining  him  in  its  icy  grasp ! Finally,  it  held  him  as  in  a 
vice,  and  he  felt  that  escape  was  no  longer  possible.  Hunger 
had  then  spoken  to  him  in  the  tempter’s  voice,  and  whispered 
to  his  anxious  soul  that  crime  might  still  save  him ; it  whis- 
pered that  he  could  not  be  blamed  for  a theft  committed 
under  such  circumstances,  and  hard-hearted  society  would 
alone  bear  the  responsibility.  Then,  in  his  anguish,  he  had 
determined  to  seek  refuge,  from  the  tempter’s  voice,  in  death, 
in  the  silent  bed  of  the  river. 

Theophilus  narrated  this  sad  history  of  his  sufferings  with 
many  sighs  and  groans.  He  painted  a very  gloomy  picture 
of  his  life,  and  Schiller  was  deeply  moved.  He  laid  his  hand 
on  the  poor  youth’s  pale  brow  and  looked  upwards,  an  expres- 
sion of  deep  devotion  and  solemn  earnestness  depicted  in  his 
countenance. 

“ Thou  hast  listened  to  the  wails  of  two  mortals  to-day, 
thou  Spirit  of  the  Universe.  The  one  spoke  to  Thee  in  the 
anger  of  a man,  the  other  in  the  despairing  cry  of  a youth. 
Impart,  to  both  of  them,  of  Thy  peace,  and  of  Thy  strength ! 
Give  to  the  man  the  resignation  which  teaches  him  that  his 
mission  on  earth  is  not  to  be  happy,  but  to  struggle ; teach 
the  youth  that  the  darkest  night  is  but  the  harbinger  of  com- 
ing day,  and  that  he  must  not  despair  while  in  darkness  and 
gloom,  but  ever  look  forward  hopefully  to  the  coming  light.” 

“ Thou  hast  had  Hope— in  thy  belief  thy  prize— 

Thy  life  was  centred  in  it,” 

murmured  Theophilus,  smiling  sadly. 

Schiller  started  and  looked  inquiringly  at  the  youth,  who, 
in  so  strange  a coincidence  of  thought,  had  given  expression 
to  his  despair  in  lines  taken  from  the  same  poem  from  which 
the  poet  had  repeated  a verse  in  his  hour  of  trial. 


280 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


“Are  the  lines  you  have  just  uttered  your  own?”  asked 
Schiller. 

“No,”  replied  the  youth,  softly,  “from  whence  should  such 
inspiration  come  to  me.  The  lines  are  from  Schiller’s  poem, 
‘To  Eesignation, ’ from  the  pen  of  the  poet  who  is  the  favorite 
of  the  gods  and  muses,  the  poet  who  is  adored  by  all  Ger- 
many.” 

“ Do  you  know  this  Frederick  Schiller,  of  whom  you  speak 
with  such  admiration?” 

“ No,  I have  never  seen  him,  nor  do  I desire  to  see  him!  I 
love  and  adore  him  as  a sublime  spirit,  as  a disembodied 
genius.  I would,  perhaps,  envy  him  if  he  should  appear  be- 
fore me  in  human  form.” 

“Envy  him,  and  why?” 

“ Because  he  is  the  chosen,  the  happy  one ! I do  not  wish 
to  see  the  poet  in  bodily  form ; I do  not  wish  to  know  that  he 
eats  and  drinks  like  other  men!” 

“And  suffers  like  other  men,  too,”  said  Schiller,  softly. 

“ No,  that  is  impossible!”  cried  Theophilus,  with  vivacity. 
“ His  soul  is  filled  with  Heaven  and  the  smiles  of  the  Divin- 
ity; he  cannot  suffer,  he  cannot  be  unhappy!” 

Schiller  did  not  reply.  His  head  was  thrown  back,  and  he 
was  gazing  up  at  the  heavens;  the  moon  again  shone  on  his 
countenance,  and  the  starlight  sparkled  in  the  tears  that 
rolled  slowly  down  his  cheeks.  “ He  cannot  suffer,  he  cannot 
be  unhappy!”  he  repeated  in  a low  voice.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  a transformation  was  going  on  within  himself,  that  he 
was  growing  larger  and  stronger,  and  that  his  heart  had  laid 
on  a coat  of  armor.  He  sprang  from  the  ground,  stood 
proudly  erect,  and  shook  his  arms  aloft.  “Here  truly  is 
manly  strength,  the  sinews  are  tightly  drawn,  the  muscles  are 
firm;  a genius  has  selected  this  breast  as  its  abode,  to  give  it 
strength  to  shake  off  the  burden  of  sorrow.”  He  felt  that  his 
good  genius  had  conducted  him  to  this  unhappy  man,  that  he 
miglit  be  taught  tliat  the  strong  alone  can  bear  pain,  and  that 
the  weak  must  succumb  under  the  rod  of  affliction.  His 


SOULS  IN  PURGATORY. 


281 


heart  was  filled  with  pity  for  the  weak  brother  at  his  side. 
^^It  was  God’s  will  that  I should  save  you  from  death;  in  so 
doing,  I however  contracted  the  obligation  to  preserve  your 
life.  I will  meet  this  obligation.  Tell  me,  what  were  your 
plans  before  your  father’s  death?*' 

I hoped,  when  I should  have  finished  my  course  at  the 
university,  to  enter  some  family  as  teacher,  where  I could,  in 
time,  earn  enough  to  enable  me  to  go  to  the  Catholic  Sem- 
inary in  Cologne,  and  maintain  me  there,  while  completing 
my  studies.” 

“ You  are  a Catholic?” 

My  father  was  from  the  Rhine,  and  my  mother  was  of 
Polish  extraction.  Both  were  Catholics,  and  it  was  their  fond 
hope  that  their  son  might  some  day  receive  ordination  and 
become  a priest  of  the  Catholic  Church.  It  seems,  however, 
that  I have  only  been  ordained  to  misery,  and  I could  veil  my 
head  and  die  in  shame  and  remorse!” 

Young  man,  this  is  blasphemy,  you  forfeit  God’s  grace 
when  you  speak  in  this  manner.  He  sent  me  here  to  save 
you,  and  with  his  aid  I will  not  leave  my  task  uncompleted. 
How  much  will  enable  you  to  prepare  yourself  for  your  future 
career?’* 

‘‘  The  sum  that  I require  is  so  great  that  I scarcely  dare 
mention  it.” 

“Would  one  hundred  dollars  be  sufficient?” 

“ That  is  far  more  than  I need,  more  than  I ever  possessed!” 
cried  Theophilus,  almost  terrified.” 

“ If  I should  promise  to  give  you  this  amount — to  give  it 
to  you  here,  at  this  same  place,  and  at  this  hour,  in  a week 
from  to-day,  would  you  swear  to  wait  patiently  and  hopefully 
until  then,  and  to  make  no  further  wicked  attempt  on  your 
life?” 

“I  would  swear  to  do  so,”  replied  Theophilus,  in  a trem- 
bling and  tearful  voice. 

“ By  the  memory  of  your  father  and  mother?” 

“By  the  memory  of  my  father  and  mother!” 


282 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


“Well,  then,  my  brother,  with  God’s  help  I will  bring  you 
the  money  in  a week  from  to-day.  I would  say  to-morrow,  if 
I had  the  money;  but  I am  poor,  like  you,  my  brother.  No, 
this  is  hardly  true.  I am  rich,  for  I have  friends,  and  these 
friends  will  furnish  the  money  you  require,  if  I entreat  them 
to  do  so.” 

“You  will  narrate  my  history  to  your  friends?”  said  The- 
ophilus,  blushing. 

“ That  I will  have  to  do,  in  order  to  awaken  sympathy,  but 
I will  not  mention  your  name,  nor  will  I so  closely  narrate 
the  circumstances  that  they  can  possibly  divine  of  whom  I am 
speaking.  Moreover,  you  told  me  that  you  had  no  friends  or 
acquaintances  in  Dresden?” 

“True,”  sighed  Theophilus,  letting  his  head  sink  on  his 
breast,  “ misfortune  knows  itself  only,  and  cares  are  its  only 
friends.  It  conceals  its  wounds,  and  hides  itself  in  darkness. 
But  I have  no  longer  the  right  to  be  proud ; I bow  my  head 
in  humility.  Plead  my  cause,  my  noble,  generous  friend,  my 
saviour!  God’s  mercy  will  give  you  eloquence,  and  the  con- 
sciousness of  having  saved  a human  being  from  disgrace  and 
crime  will  make  your  words  irresistible.  My  heart  is  filled 
with  the  joyful  conviction  that  God  has  sent  you  as  a messen- 
ger of  peace  and  reconciliation.  I will  believe  in,  and  con- 
fide in  you;  I will  live,  because  you  tell  me  to  live!” 

“Live,  my  brother,  and  hope!”  said  Schiller,  gently. 
“ Await  me  at  this  place,  and  at  this  hour,  a week  from  to- 
day ; I hope  to  bring  you  the  money.  But  you  must  have 
something  with  which  to  purchase  the  necessaries  of  life  until 
then.  Here,  my  brother,  take  all  that  I have  in  my  purse. 
I have  only  four  dollars,  but  that  sum  will  suffice  to  provide 
you  with  food  and  lodging.” 

Theophilus  took  the  money,  and  kissed  the  giver’s  hand. 
“ I have  proudly  rejected  the  gifts  offered  me  by  the  rich, 
preferring  to  die  rather  than  receive  their  heartless  charity. 
Ihit  from  you,  brother  Samaritan,  I humbly  accept  the  gift  of 
love.  1 willingly  burden  myself  with  this  debt  of  gratitude.” 


SEPARATION. 


283 


“ Let  us  now  separate,”  said  Schiller.  “ In  a week  we  meet 
again.  But  one  request  I desire  to  make  of  you.” 

^^You  have  but  to  command,  and  I will  obey  you  im- 
plicitly.” 

“ I beg  you  not  to  attempt  to  find  me  out,  or  to  learn  who  I 
am?  We  have  seen  each  other’s  countenances  in  the  moon- 
light, but  they  were  covered  with  a golden  veil.  Do  not 
attempt  to  remove  this  veil  in  the  light  of  day,  and  to  learn 
my  name.  I feel  assured  that  you  will  make  no  mention  of 
this  incident  of  to-night,  but  I also  desire  to  avoid  meeting 
you  in  future.  I therefore  beg  you  not  to  go  out  much  in 
Dresden,  and  not  to  frequent  the  main  streets  of  the  city.  If 
we  should  meet,  my  heart  would  prompt  me  to  extend  my 
hand  and  speak  to  you,  and  that  would  not  be  desirable.” 

Further  down  on  the  Elbe  there  is  a little  inn  where  I can 
board  cheaply.  From  here  I will  go  to  this  inn  and  there  re- 
main till  the  appointed  hour.  I will  not  go  near  the  city.” 

‘‘Good-night,  brother!”  said  Schiller,  extending  his  hand. 
“ Here  we  shall  meet  again.  And  now,  turn  you  to  the  left, 
and  I will  turn  to  the  right.  May  good  spirits  watch  over  us 
till  our  return!” 


CHAPTER  V. 

SEPAEATION. 

Schiller  walked  homeward  wHh  rapid  strides.  The 
streets  of  the  city  were  silent  and  deserted,  and  the  houses 
enveloped  in  darkness.  He  passed  by  the  house  in  which  she 
lived  for  whom  he  had  suffered  so  much.  He  did  not  look 
up,  but  his  head  sank  lower  on  his  breast,  and  a feeling  of 
unutterable  sadness  came  over  him;  but  he  had  no  pity  for 
himself,  not  a single  sigh  or  complaint  escaped  his  breast. 

A sensation  of  chilliness  crept  over  him  as  he  now  entered 
his  solitary  dwelling.  No  one  was  there  to  extend  the  hand 
19 


384 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


of  sympathy  and  bid  him  welcome.  His  two  friends  had 
awaited  his  return  for  a long  time,  but  had  finally  gone  home. 
They  knew  their  friend’s  disposition,  they  knew  that  Schiller 
always  avoided  men  when  his  passions  were  aroused,  and 
sought  out  some  solitude  where  no  eye  could  witness  his  strug- 
gle to  subdue  them. 

“ He  very  probably  has  gone  to  Loschwitz,  to  spend  a few 
days  in  the  pavilion  in  which  he  wrote  ‘Don  Carlos,”'  said 
Körner.  “ His  genius  always  directs  the  poet  aright,  and  he 
possesses  the  healing  balsam  for  his  wounds  in  his  own  breast. 
I will  go  to  Loschwitz  myself , to-morrow,  to  see  if  he  is  there, 
and  to  make  a few  inquiries  as  to  his  condition.  If  I find 
him  there  I shall  leave  him  to  himself  till  his  agitation  and 
passion  have  subsided,  and  he  voluntarily  returns  to  his 
friends." 

“ But  if  he  is  not  there?"  said  Göschen,  anxiously,  as  they 
stepped  out  into  the  street.  “ I never  before  saw  Schiller  in 
so  violent  a state  of  excitement.  If  this  fearful  awakening 
from  his  delusion  should  overcome  him — if  in  his  despair  he 
should—" 

“Do  not  conclude  your  sentence,"  said  Körner,  interrupt- 
ing him,  “ do  not  utter  that  terrible  word.  Do  not  insult 
your  absent  friend ; remember  that  he  is  a genius.  He  will 
not  yield  to  despair  like  an  ordinary  man ; his  soul  will  soon 
recover  its  buoyancy." 

But  for  this  night,  at  least,  Körner’s  prophecy  was  not  des- 
tined to  be  fulfilled.  True,  Schiller  had  overcome  despair, 
but  the  pain  still  rankled  in  his  breast.  The  bed  on  which 
he  threw  himself  in  his  physical  exhaustion  was  a bed  of  pain. 
Ilis  thoughts  and  remembrances  were  the  thorns  that  pierced 
his  heart,  and  drove  sleep  from  his  couch. 

He  arose  the  next  morning  at  a late  hour  in  a state  of 
feverish  excitement,  entered  his  plainly-furnished  parlor,  and 
looked  gloomily  around  him.  But  yesterday  his  parlor  had 
looked  so  cosey  and  comfortable,  to-day  it  seemed  so  bare  and 
desolate.  Those  flowers  in  the  little  vase  were  but  yesterday 


SEPARATION. 


285 


so  bright  and  fragrant,  to-day  they  were  faded.  The  books 
and  papers  on  his  table  were  in  the  greatest  disorder.  The 
appearance  of  the  room  awakened  in  Schiller  the  sensation  of 
sadness  and  desolation  we  experience  on  entering  the  deserted 
room  of  a dear  friend  who  has  suddenly  left  us. 

Yes,  joy,  love,  hope,  and  enthusiasm,  had  departed  from 
this  room ; it  now  looked  dreary  and  desolate.  How  can  we 
work,  how  can  we  write  poetry,  without  enthusiasm,  without 
joy? 

“Elegies  on  a faithless  sweetheart,’'  said  Schiller,  in  loud, 
mocking  tones.  “A  tearful  poem,  with  the  title:  ‘When 
last  I saw  her  in  the  circle  of  her  suitors;’  or  ‘The  amorous 
swain  outwitted!’  ” 

He  burst  into  laughter,  stepped  to  the  window,  and  com- 
menced tapping  on  the  panes  with  his  fingers,  as  he  had  done 
when  Körner  and  Göschen  first  aroused  his  suspicions  con- 
cerning his  love.  He  was  now  reminded  of  this;  he  hastily 
withdrew  his  hands  and  walked  back  into  the  room.  But  he 
suddenly  recoiled,  and  uttered  a cry  of  dismay,  as  though  he 
had  seen  a ghost.  Marie  von  Arnim  stood  in  the  doorway, 
pale  but  composed,  her  large  blue  eyes  fastened  with  an  im- 
ploring expression  on  Schiller’s  countenance. 

She  gave  him  no  time  to  recover  from  his  surprise,  but  locked 
the  door  behind  her,  threw  her  bonnet  and  shawl  on  a chair, 
and  walked  forward  into  the  the  room. 

“Schiller,”  said  she,  in  a soft,  trembling  voice,  “I  have 
come  because  I do  not  wish  you  to  despise  me,  because  I do 
not  wish  the  thought  of  me  to  leave  a shadow  on  your 
memory.” 

He  had  now  recovered  his  composure ; a feeling  of  anger 
raged  in  him  and  demanded  utterance. 

“What  is  there  surprising  in  your  coming?  Why  should 
you  not  have  come?  Ladies  of  rank  go  in  person  to  their 
tailors  and  shoemakers  when  they  desire  to  make  purchases  or 
leave  orders,  why  should  you  not  come  to  a poet  to  order  a 
nuptial  poem.  I am  right  in  supposing  that  the  young  lady 


286 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


wishes  me  to  write  a poem  in  honor  of  her  approaching  nup- 
tials with  Count  Kunheim,  am  I not?  I am  also  right,  1 
believe,  as  regards  the  name  of  that  favored,  member  of  the 
exclusive  family  circle  of  yesterday,  who  is  destined  to  become 
that  young  lady’s  husband?” 

“Yes,  you  are,”  she  replied,  softly.  “You  see,  Schiller,  I 
have  not  interrupted  you,  but  have  received  your  words  as  the 
penitent  receives  the  blows  of  the  rod,  without  complaint  or 
murmur,  although  blood  is  streaming  from  her  wounds.  But 
now  be  merciful,  Schiller!  let  this  punishment  suffice,  and 
listen  to  me!” 

“ I know  what  the  substance  of  the  poem  is  to  be,”  observed 
Schiller,  in  the  same  threatening  voice.  “ Undoubtedly  you 
desire  a sort  of  illustration  of  the  courtship,  from  the  first 
meeting  down  to  the  avowal,  and  then  the  golden  honeymoon 
is  to  be  painted  in  brilliant  colors.  Probably  it  would  meet 
your  wishes  if  a comical  feature  were  also  introduced ; for  in- 
stance : a poor  poet,  who,  in  his  absurd  conceit,  had  dared  to 
consider  himself  Count  Kunheim’s  equal,  and  who,  acting  on 
this  belief,  had  even  dared  to  fall  in  love  with  the  beautiful 
young  lady,  who,  of  course,  only  laughed  at  his  presumption.” 

“ No,  Schiller,  who  would  have  been  the  proudest  and  hap- 
piest of  women  if  circumstances  had  permitted  her  to  avow 
her  love  freely  and  openly.” 

“Yes,”  cried  Schiller,  gruffly,  “circumstances  are  always 
the  scapegoats  of  the  weak  and  faithless.  I,  however,  admit 
the  difficulties  arising  from  the  circumstances  by  which  you 
were  surrounded  in  this  instance.  You  were  making  use  of 
the  poet’s  love  to  allure  richer  suitors  into  your  toils,  a game 
requiring  some  finesse.  My  role  was  neither  a fiattering  nor 
a grateful  one,  but  yet  it  was  a role,  and  a dramatic  poet  can- 
not expect  to  have  good  ones  only.  But  enough  of  this ! Let 
us  speak  of  the  poem.  When  must  it  be  ready?” 

“Schiller,”  she  cried,  almost  frantic,  tears  streaming  from 
her  eyes,  “Schiller,  will  you  have  no  pity  on  me?” 

“Did  you  have  pity  on  me?”  asked  he,  with  a sudden 


SEPARATION. 


287 


transition  from  his  mocking  to  an  angry  tone  of  voice,  and 
regarding  Marie,  who  had  folded  her  hands  humbly,  and  was 
looking  up  at  him  entreatingly,  with  glances  that  grew  darker 
and  angrier  as  he  spoke.  “ I ask  you,  did  you  have  pity  on 
me?  Did  it  never  occur  to  you,  while  engaged  in  your 
shrewd  calculation,  that  you  were  preparing  to  give  me  a 
wound  for  which  there  is  no  cure?  When  two  loving  hearts 
are  torn  asunder  by  death  or  the  hand  of  fate,  the  pain  can 
be  borne,  and  time  may  heal  the  wound ; when  the  cruel  laws 
of  human  society  compel  us  to  separate  from  those  we  love,  a 
consolation  still  remains.  The  sacred,  the  undimmed  remem- 
brance of  past  hours  of  bliss,  and  the  hope  that  time,  the 
great  equalizer,  may  remove  all  obstacles,  still  remains.  But 
what  consolation  remains  to  him  who  has  been  cheated  of  his 
love,  his  enthusiasm,  and  his  ideal? — to  me,  over  whose  heart 
the  remembrance  of  this  deception  lies  like  a pall?  From 
whence  am  I to  derive  faith,  hope,  and  confidence,  now  that 
you,  whom  I loved,  have  deceived  me?  You  have  not  only 
destroyed  my  happiness,  but  you  have  also  offended  the  genius 
of  poetry  within  me.  Henceforth  all  will  seem  cold  and  in- 
sipid. The  word  ‘enthusiasm’  will  ring  in  my  ear  like  a 
mockery.  I will  even  mistrust  the  vows  of  fidelity  uttered  by 
the  lips  of  my  dramatic  creations ; for,  now  that  you  have  so 
shamefully  deceived  me,  there  is  no  longer  any  thing  noble, 
pure,  and  beautiful.’’ 

He  hurled  a last  angry  glance  at  her,  and  then  turned 
away,  walked  to  the  window  and  looked  out  into  the  street. 
Marie  von  Arnim  followed  him  and  laid  her  cold,  trembling 
hand  on  his  arm. 

“ Schiller,  if  I were  really  the  woman  you  take  me  to  be, 
would  I have  come  to  you  at  the  risk  of  being  observed  by 
others — at  the  risk  of  its  becoming  known  throughout  the 
city  that  I had  visited  you?  I have  come,  Schiller,  because 
I was  unwilling  that  the  most  beautiful  music  of  my  life  should 
end  in  discord,  because  I was  unwilling  that  you  should  re- 
member me  with  anger,  when  I only  deserve  commiseration.  ** 


288 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


“Commiseration!''  repeated  Schiller,  shrugging  his  shoul- 
ders. 

“Yes,"  she  continued,  in  a soft  voice,  “yes,  I deserve  it. 
I am  not  bad,  not  faithless,  and  not  false.  I am  only  a poor 
girl  whose  heart  and  hands  have  been  fettered  by  fate.  A 
poor  girl  who  cannot  do  what  she  would,  but  must  obey  God’s 
command  and  submit  to  her  mother’s  will.  Do  not  require 
me  to  acquaint  you  with  all  the  misery  which  afflicts  my 
family,  with  the  cares  and  humiliations  which  those  must  suffer 
who  cover  their  want  with  a veil  of  wealth,  and  polish  and 
plate  iron  poverty  till  it  has  the  appearance  of  golden  plenty. 
Believe  me,  Schiller,  we  are  so  poor  that  we  do  not  know  how 
we  are  to  escape  from  our  importunate  creditors." 

“ And  yet,  you  gave  agreeable  dinners,  and  entertained  the 
exclusive  family  circle  at  delightful  suppers,"  observed  Schil- 
ler, jeeringly,  and  without  even  turning  to  look  at  Marie,  who 
stood  behind  him. 

“ My  mother  would  have  it  so,  Schiller.  She  had  sold  her 
last  jewels  in  order  that  she  might  be  able  to  come  to  Dres- 
den, where  she  hoped  to  marry  her  daughter  to  a fortune. 
Schiller,  you  will  believe  me  when  I swear  that  I knew  noth- 
ing of  this,  and  that  my  first  and  greatest  joy  on  coming  to 
Dresden  was  experienced  when  I made  your  acquaintance, 
and  when  you  honored  me  with  your  notice!  Schiller,  I 
have  dreamed  a sweet,  a blissful  dream. " 

“ And  the  light  in  the  window  was  the  night-lamp  in  this 
dream,"  he  observed,  in  mocking  tones. 

“ I make  no  attempt  to  justify  myself,’'  said  she,  gently. 
“ My  mother  gave  me  her  commands,  and  I was  compelled  to 
obey.  When  she  yesterday  declared  to  me  that  the  only  issue 
out  of  all  her  troubles  was  for  me  to  accept  Count  Kunheim’s 
addresses,  and  begged  me  to  do  so,  I only  consented  after 
a long  and  fruitless  struggle,  after  many  tears  and  entreaties. 
I yielded  to  my  mother’s  commands,  but  I exacted  this  con- 
dition: Schiller  must  now  learn  the  whole  truth,  these  little 
mysteries  must  cease,  and  no  light  shall  be  placed  at  the  win- 


SEPARATION. 


289 


aow  this  evening,  requesting  him  not  to  come.  This,  my 
mother  promised,  but  she  was  cruel  enough  to  break  her 
promise.” 

“ So  that  I should  still  wander  about,  a deluded  and  credu- 
lous simpleton,  if  I had  not  broken  through  the  barriers  of 
the  exclusive  family  circle  in  defiance  of  the  warning  light.” 

“ I am  thankful  that  fate  willed  otherwise,  and  frustrated 
my  mother’s  intentions,”  said  Marie,  gently.  When  we  are 
compelled  to  deny  any  one  the  happiness  we  would  so  willingly 
accord,  it  is  our  duty  to  tell  him  the  truth,  although  it  may 
be  painful.  Truth  is  a two-edged  sword ; it  not  only  wounds 
him  who  hears,  but  him  also  who  imparts  it.  I have  come, 
Schiller,”  continued  Marie  in  an  agitated  voice,  after  a short 
pause,  “ to  take  leave  of  you — to  say  to  you : Schiller,  we  shall 
never  meet  again  in  life,  let  us  part  in  peace!” 

Never  again!”  murmured  he,  slowly  turning  his  coun- 
tenance toward  the  woman,  who  had  heretofore  looked  so 
bright  and  joyous,  so  radiant  with  youth  and  beauty,  and  who 
now  stood  at  his  side  so  humble  and  submissive,  her  tearful 
eyes  raised  imploringly  to  his. 

Never  again!”  sighed  Marie.  “Our  paths  in  life  will 
henceforth  be  widely  separated.  I intend  to  marry  the  man 
whose  wealth  will  save  my  mother  and  brother.  I will  be  to 
him  a faithful  and  grateful  wife,  although  I may  not  be  a 
loving  one.  I am  to  be  affianced  to  Count  Kunheim  at  noon 
to-day,  and  I have  employed  the  last  hour  of  my  liberty  in 
coming  here  to  take  leave  of  you,  Schiller,  and  to  beg  for- 
giveness for  the  pain  infiicted  on  you,  of  which  I am  the  in- 
nocent cause.” 

“The  innocent  cause!”  cried  Schiller,  turning  around  and 
staring  at  her  with  his  large,  fiaming  eyes.  “ How  can  you 
say  that  you  are  the  innocent  cause  of  the  pain  which  you 
infiicted  on  me?  You  knew  that  I loved  you.  I told  you 
so,  and  you  listened  to  my  avowal.  You  gave  me  hope,  al- 
though you  must  have  known  that  my  love  was  hopeless.” 

“You  speak  of  yourself  only,”  rejoined  Marie,  in  low  and 


290 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


trembling  tones.  You  are  not  thinking  of  me  at  all ; it  does 
not  occur  to  you  that  I also  have  suffered,  that  I also  have 
hoped.  Yes,  Schiller,  I did  suppose  that  my  mother  would 
yield  to  my  prayers  and  entreaties ; even  yesterday  I conjured 
her  on  my  knees  to  permit  me  to  seek  my  own  happiness  in 
my  own  way,  as  my  heart  prompted.  At  that  time  I was  not 
aware  that  my  mother’s  circumstances  were  so  desperate.  I 
knew  not  that  her  honor  and  even  her  liberty  were  endangered. 
When  she  admitted  that  such  was  the  case,  when  she  disclosed 
the  whole  sorrowful  truth,  I felt  as  though  my  heart  would 
break,  as  though  all  the  blossoms  of  my  future  had  suddenly 
faded.  The  conviction  forced  itself  upon  me  that  it  was  my 
duty  to  sacrifice,  to  my  mother’s  welfare,  my  own  wishes  and 
hopes.  I did  my  duty ; I gave  up  my  own  happiness  to  save 
my  mother — to  secure,  at  least,  a ray  of  sunshine  in  the  even- 
ing of  her  life.  I have  submitted.  I will  become  the  wife 
of  Count  Kunheim.'' 

“ And  will  say  to  him  that  you  joyfully  accept  and  recipro- 
cate his  generous  love!’’ 

“ No,  I will  not  tell  this  noble  man  a falsehood,  nor  have  I 
done  so.  When  he  yesterday  evening  offered  me  his  hand,  I 
told  him  honestly  and  openly  that  I esteemed  and  confided  in 
him,  and  would  be  a very  thankful  and  faithful  wife,  but  that 
my  heart  was  no  longer  free — a love  dwelt  therein  that  could 
never  die,  for  it  was  Schiller  whom  I loved!” 

“You  told  him  that?”  asked  Schiller,  with  emotion. 
“ And  he—” 

“ He  agreed  with  me  that  the  heart  which  loved  Schiller 
could  never  forget  him,  but  added  that  he  would  only  esteem 
me  the  more,  and  could  never  be  jealous  on  account  of  this 
love.  lie  said  that  my  love  for  Schiller  should  be  the  altar 
of  our  married  life  and  of  our  house — the  altar  to  which  we 
would  bring  the  fruits  of  our  noblest  thoughts  and  feelings.” 

“Noble,  generous  man!”  cried  Schiller,  “Yes,  he  deserves 
to  be  happy  and  to  possess  you.  Be  his  wife,  Marie,  and  do 
your  duty.  Let  the  early  blossom  of  your  heart  fade,  and  le<( 


SEPARATION. 


291 


the  full  summer-rose  of  your  love  bloom  for  your  husband. 
You  can  do  so,  Marie,  for — I say  it  without  anger  or  ill-will — 
you  have  never  loved  me!  No,  do  not  contradict,  do  not  at- 
tempt to  assure  me  that  such  is  not  the  case.  In  this  hour, 
when  my  soul  is  elevated  above  all  selfish  wishes  and  desires — 
in  this  hour,  I rejoice  in  recognizing  the  fact,  you  have  never 
loved  me,  I know  that  a kind  Providence  has  thus  spared  you 
the  pain  I now  endure ; I know  you  will  be  happy  at  the  side 
of  the  noble  and  high-souled  man  who  demands  your  hand  in 
marriage.  I do  not  mean  to  say  that  you  will  soon  forget  me; 
I think  too  well  of  myself  to  believe  this.  No,  you  will  yet 
shed  tears  when  you  think  of  him  who  loved  you,  but  the 
bridegroom  will  be  there  to  dry  these  tears.  With  tender 
sympathy  he  will  speak  to  you  of  your  love,  as  of  a beautiful 
dream  of  the  spring-time,  and  you  will  find  that  the  awaken^ 
ing  from  this  dream  on  a bright,  fiowery  summer  day,  is  also 
beautiful,  and  that  will  console  you.  Some  day,  after  many 
years,  when  my  pain  has  long  since  vanished,  and  I have  gone 
home  to  the  unknown  land  from  whence  no  traveller  returns — 
some  day,  when  your  weeping  children  and  grandchildren 
surround  your  couch,  and  you  feel  your  last  hour  approaching, 
you  will  once  more  remember  this  dream  of  the  spring-time. 
It  will  greet  you  like  a ray  of  sunshine  from  the  new  life  that 
is  dawning.  With  a smile  on  your  lips,  you  will  turn  to  your 
children  and  say:  ‘I  leave  you  gold  and  treasures,  a brilliant 
name  and  high  rank.  But  I leave  you  a more  precious  leg- 
acy. Schiller  loved  me,  and  a poet’s  love  is  a blessing  that  is 
inherited  from  generation  to  generation.  Your  father’s 
name  gives  you  rank  and  honor  before  men,  but  the  love 
which  the  poet  consecrated  to  your  mother  gives  you  renown 
and  immortality.  Strive  to  be  worthy  of  this  love.  Go  to 
the  grave  of  the  poet  who  died  in  solitude  and  poverty,  and 
pray  for  him!’ '' 

‘^No,  Schiller,  that  will  not  be  all  that  I say  to  those  who 
will  some  day  surround  my  death-bed,”  said  Marie,  drying 
her  tears,  in  order  that  her  large,  luminous  eyes  might  gaze 


292 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


at  his  sad  countenance  more  fully  and  firmly.  “ I will  say  to 
them:  ‘I  am  now  returning  to  God,  and  to  my  first,  my  im- 
perishable love.  In  death  I may  proudly  and  joyfully  con- 
fess I have  loved  Schiller!  I still  love  him!’  ” 

The  poet,  as  if  irresistibly  attracted  by  her  enthusiasm  and 
her  glowing  countenance — hardly  knowing  what  he  did — ex- 
tended his  arms  toward  Marie.  She  threw  herself  on  his 
breast ; he  pressed  her  gently  to  his  heart,  and  let  his  hand 
rest  lovingly  on  her  head. 

It  was  a silent  and  solemn  moment,  a last  blissful  and 
sorrowful  embrace.  Their  lips  were  dumb,  but  their  hearts 
communed  in  holy  thought  and  prayer. 

After  a pause,  Schiller  gently  raised  up  between  his  hands 
the  head  that  was  still  resting  on  his  breast ; he  gazed  long 
and  lovingly  into  the  fair  girl’s  countenance.  The  tears  that 
flowed  from  his  eyes  fell  on  hers  like  glowing  pearls,  mingling 
with  her  own  tears  and  trickling  down  her  cheeks.  Schiller 
bowed  his  head,  and  kissed  the  lips  that  responded  warmly  to 
his  own.  He  then  pressed  her  hands  to  his  eyes  and  released 
her  from  his  embrace. 

She  turned  slowly,  walked  toward  the  door,  and  put  on  her 
shawl  and  bonnet.  ‘‘Farewell,  Schiller!” 

“Farewell,  Marie!” 

And  now  she  stood  in  the  doorway,  her  eyes  fastened  on 
him  in  a last  lingering  look.  He  stood  silently  regarding  her. 

A grating  noise  broke  in  upon  the  silence ; it  was  the  clos- 
ing door  behind  which  Marie  had  vanished.  Schiller  re- 
mained standing  at  the  same  place,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  door. 
Had  it  suddenly  grown  so  dark?  was  the  sun  overcast?  or  was 
it  only  the  tears  in  his  eyes  that  made  the  room  look  so 
gloomy?  Had  a storm  suddenly  arisen?  did  an  earthquake 
make  the  ground  tremble  beneath  him?  or  was  it  only  the 
storm  of  passion  that  was  passing  over  his  head?  Why  was  it 
that  his  knees  trembled,  and  that  he  would  have  fallen  to  the 
ground  had  not  a chair  stood  near  by,  into  which  he  sank, 
groaning? 


THE  SONG  “TO  JOY. 


293 


The  hour  in  which  a man  wrestles  with  his  agony — the 
hour  of  renunciation  and  conquest,  is  sacred ; the  eye  of  God 
only  may  witness  it,  but  no  tongue  must  attempt  to  describe 
it,  unless  indeed  that  of  the  poet  whose  pain  is  surrounded 
by  the  halo  of  poetry — the  poet  to  whom  the  hour  of  renun» 
elation  has  also  become  the  hour  of  enthusiasm. 

Some  one  is  weeping  and  lamenting  behind  that  door.  Is 
it  Marie? 

Some  one  is  speaking  in  loud  and  earnest  tones  behind  this 
door.  Is  it  the  poet  composing  an  inscription  for  the  grave- 
stone of  his  love? 

“ Give  me  thy  Laura — give  me  her  whom  love 
To  thy  heart's  core  endears; 

I tore  the  fond  shape  from  the  bleeding  love, 

And  gave— albeit  with  tears  1" 

A loud  knock  is  heard  at  the  door,  and  then  a second,  and 
a third,  in  quick  succession.  Schiller  shakes  back  the  hair 
from  his  countenance,  and  hastens  forward  to  see  who  is 
clamoring  for  admission. 


OHAPTEE  yi. 

THE  SONG  '^TO  JOY.'' 

It  was  the  postman,  who  brought  the  poet  a rosy,  perfumed 
letter  from  Weimar. 

With  eager  hands,  Schiller  opened  and  unfolded  the  mis- 
sive. His  countenance  beamed  with  joy  as  he  recognized 
Madame  von  Kalb’s  handwriting.  ‘‘  Good  and  noble  woman, 
you  have  not  forgotten  me!  Do  you  still  think  of  me 
lovingly?" 

No,  she  had  not  forgotten  him;  she  still  loved  him,  and 
begged  him,  with  tender  and  eloquent  entreaties,  to  come  to 
her. 

“ Schiller,  the  world  is  a solitude  without  you ; you  are  the 
thought  of  my  inmost  thoughts,  the  soul  of  my  soul ! Freder- 


294: 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


ick,  Separation  from  you  has  disclosed  the  holy  mystery  of 
your  heart  and  of  mine.  It  is  this:  We  are  the  two  halves 
that  were  one  in  heaven,  and  our  mission  on  earth  is  to 
strive  to  come  together,  in  order  that  our  eternal  indivisibility 
and  unity  of  spirit  may  be  restored.  Schiller,  when  we  are 
once  more  united,  hand  in  hand,  and  are  gazing  in  each 
other’s  eyes,  we  shall  feel  as  if  we  had  left  the  earth  and  were 
once  more  in  heaven.  Frederick,  come  to  your  Charlotte!” 

“Yes,  I am  coming  to  my  Charlotte,  I am  coming!”  cried 
Schiller,  in  a loud  voice,  as  he  pressed  the  letter  to  his  lips. 
“ You  have  saved  me,  you  have  made  me  myself  again,  Char- 
lotte! I am  no  longer  lonely,  no  longer  unloved.  Your 
heart  calls  me,  your  spirit  longs  for  me.  I feel  as  though  my 
soul’s  wings,  destined  to  bear  me  aloft  above  the  misery  of 
earth,  were  growing  stronger.  They  will  bear  me  to  you, 
Charlotte — to  you,  the  dearest  friend  of  my  life!  You  shall 
console,  you  shall  restore  me,  your  friendship  shall  be  the 
balsam  for  the  wounds  of  my  heart.  Eternal  Fate,  I thank 
thee  for  having  permitted  me  to  hear  this  call  of  friendship 
in  this  my  hour  of  trial.  I thank  thee  that  there  is  still  one 
soul  that  I can  call  mine ; I praise  thee  that  I am  not  com- 
pelled to  stand  aside  in  shame  and  tears,  like  an  unloved, 
friendless  beggar,  while  the  happy  are  feasting  at  the  richly- 
laden  table  of  life.  One  soul  I can  at  least  call  my  own,  and 
I will  keep  her  holy,  and  love  and  thank  her  all  the  days  of 
my  life.  Away  with  tears ! away  with  this  sorrowing  over  a 
dream  of  happiness!  Farewell,  Marie!  Be  forgiven.  I will 
think  of  you  without  anger,  and  rejoice  when  you  become  a 
happy  countess!  Farewell,  Marie!*  A greeting  to  you, 
Charlotte!  I am  coming  to  you!  I am  coming!” 

He  walked  slowly  to  and  fro ; the  cloud  of  sorrow  that  had 

* Marie  von  Arnim  married  Count  von  Kunheim,  and  retired  with  him  to  his  es- 
tates in  PruKsia.  She  never  saw  Schiller  again,  nor  did  she  ever  forget  him.  A fine 
portrait  of  Schiller  hung  over  her  bed  until  her  death.  After  the  death  of  her  hus- 
band, in  the  year  1814,  Countess  Kunheim  returned  to  Dresden,  and  lived  there  in  re- 
tirement until  her  death,  in  the  year  1847.  But  she  died  without  issue,  and  could  not 
fulfil  Schiller’s  ir)rophecy,  and  speak  to  weeping  children  and  grandchildren  as- 
sembled around  her  death-bed. 


THE  SONG  “TO  JOY. 


295 


rested  on  his  brow  gradually  lifted,  and  his  countenance  grew 
clearer  and  clearer.  The  man  had  conquered — the  poet  was 
once  more  himself. 

“I  will  go  to  Körner!  I must  see  my  friend!''  He  took 
down  his  hat,  and  walked  out  into  the  street.  His  mind  had 
freed  itself  of  its  fetters,  his  step  was  elastic,  and  he  bore 
himself  proudly,  his  blue  eyes  turned  heavenward,  and  a joy- 
ous smile  rested  on  his  thin  and  delicate  lips. 

Thus  he  entered  Körner’s  dwelling,  and  found  his  friend 
on  the  point  of  starting  to  Loschwitz,  to  see  what  had  become 
of  the  poet.  Schiller  extended  both  hands  and  greeted  him 
with  a loving  glance. 

Here  I am  again,  my  friend.  The  prodigal  son  returns 
from  his  wanderings,  and  begs  to  be  permitted  to  take  up  his 
abode  in  your  heart  once  more.  Will  you  receive  him,  friend 
Körner?" 

“ I will  not  only  receive  him,  but  will  kill  the  fatted  calf  in 
honor  of  his  return.  I will  give  a festival,  to  which  all  our 
friends  shall  be  invited,  in  order  that  they  may  rejoice  with 
me,  and  exclaim,  ‘The  wanderer  has  returned!  Blessed  be 
the  hour  of  his  return!’  " 

Schiller  threw  himself  into  his  friend’s  arms,  and  pressed 
him  to  his  heart.  “ I have  caused  you  much  sorrow  and 
trouble.  I have  been  a wild  and  stubborn  fellow.  Why 
should  beautiful  women  be  blamed  for  not  loving  this  un- 
gainly and  unmannerly  fellow,  when  there  are  so  many  hand- 
somer, richer,  and  happier  men  in  the  world?  Marie  von 
Arnim  is  right  in  marrying  the  rich  and  handsome  Count 
Kunheim ; and  you  must  not  blame  her  on  this  account,  or 
say  of  her  that  she  deceived  me.  She  has  only  done  what  we 
all  must  do  on  earth : she  has  done  her  duty,  and  God  will 
bless  her  and  give  her  His  peace  in  the  hour  of  death  for  so 
doing. — But  let  us  speak  no  more  of  this." 

“ No,  my  friend,  we  will  speak  of  it  no  more,"  said  Körner, 
heartily;  “let  us  only  rejoice  that  you  have  returned  to  your 
friends;  that  you  once  more  believe  in  us  and  our  friendship. 


296 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


How  happy  my  wife  will  be  when  her  dear  friend  is  restored 
to  her  again ! how  glad  Göschen  will  be  when  you  once  more 
extend  your  hand  to  him  in  a loving  greeting!” 

‘^Poor,  generous  Göschen!”  said  Schiller,  thoughtfully. 
“ I was  cruel  and  unjust  to  him  yesterday,  I imputed  ignoble 
motives  to  my  friend!” 

‘^He  thinks  of  it  no  longer,”  said  Körner;  “he  has  no 
memory  for  the  words  spoken  by  your  anguish.  He  will  be 
only  too  happy  when  you  once  more  greet  him  with  a loving 
smile.” 

“ How  good  and  patient  you  all  are  with  me!”  said  Schiller, 
softly;  “and  how  little  have  I deserved  such  treatment  at 
your  hands!  In  truth,  I feel  as  though  I had  now  returned 
to  you  after  along  separation — as  though  I had  only  seen  you  of 
late  through  a cloud  that  had  arisen  between  us,  and  in  which 
a single  star  shone,  and — Be  still,  no  more  of  this!  The 
cloud  has  been  dissipated;  I now  see  you  again,  and  will  re- 
joice with  you  as  long  as  we  are  together.” 

“Schiller,  you  do  not  contemplate  leaving  us?”  said  Kör- 
ner, sadly. 

“ I am  a poor  wanderer,  my  friend,  whose  stay  at  any  one 
place  is  but  brief.  At  last,  a time  will  come  even  for  me, 
when  I can  lay  down  my  staff  and  knapsack,  and  exclaim, 
‘Here  I will  rest!  This  is  my  home!’  But  the  gods  only 
know  whether  this  home  will  be  in  the  grave  or  in  the  heart 
of  a woman!” 

“ No  sad  thoughts  now,  my  friend,  if  you  please,  now  that 
I am  ready  to  exult  and  rejoice  over  your  return!” 

“ You  are  right,  no  sad  thoughts  at  this  time ! Let  us  turn 
our  thoughts  to  joy.  The  first  song  I write  shall  be  in  praise 
of  joy.  I will  no  longer  avoid  mankind,  no  longer  seek  soli- 
tude! As  you  said,  Körner,  so  shall  it  be!  Give  the  prodi- 
gal son  a festival,  call  our  friends  together,  let  us  once  more 
assemble  around  the  festive  board  and  partake  of  the  repast 
of  friendship  and  joy.  This  festival  shall  be  in  honor  of  my 
/eturn  and  of  my  departure.” 


THE  SONG  “TO  JOY. 


297 


Körner  gave  this  festival.  The  lost  one,  who  had  of  late 
withdrawn  himself  from  his  friends  in  the  violence  of  his 
love,  had  now  returned,  and  this  was  a fitting  occasion  for  joy 
and  festivity.  He  called  his  friends  together;  he  had  for 
each  a kind  word  and  a tender  greeting.  Göschen  was  richly 
rewarded  when  Schiller  gave  him  the  manuscript  of  his  Don 
Carlos,  that  was  now  to  be  given  to  the  world,  and  to  entwine 
the  halo  of  immortality  around  the  poet’s  brow,  and  to  en- 
kindle and  fan  the  fiame  of  enthusiasm  in  thousands  and 
thousands  of  hearts ! 

Six  days  after  Schiller’s  ‘‘return,’'  the  festival  which  Kör- 
ner had  promised  took  place.  Körner  and  his  beautiful 
young  wife,  Theresa  Huber,  Göschen,  and  the  artist  Sophie 
Albrechfc,  were  present;  a few  friends  in  Leipsic  had  also  joy- 
fully availed  themselves  of  Körner’s  invitation,  and  had  come 
to  Dresden  to  see  the  poet  once  more. 

There  he  sat  at  the  festive  board,  his  arm  thrown  around 
Körner’s  neck?  in  his  right  hand  he  held  the  goblet  filled 
with  sparkling  Ehine  wine.  His  eyes  beamed  and  his  coun- 
tenance shone  with  enthusiasm.  His  glance  was  directed 
upward,  and,  perhaps,  he  saw  the  heavens  open  and  the  coun- 
tenance of  the  blessed,  for  a soft  and  joyous  smile  played 
about  his  lips. 

“ Look  at  this  favorite  of  the  muses,”  cried  Körner.  “ One 
might  suppose  they  held  him  in  their  embrace,  and  were 
whispering  words  of  inspiration  into  his  poet’s  heart.” 

“ Perhaps  they  are  whispering  a song  of  joy  in  my  ear,  my 
friend,  in  order  that  I may  repeat  it  to  you,  the  favorite  of 
the  gods!  But  before  I do  so,  I will  narrate  a history — a his- 
tory that  will  touch  your  hearts  and  open  your  purses,  unless 
you  are  cold-hearted  egotists,  and  then  you  deserve  to  share 
the  fate  of  King  Midas,  whose  very  food  and  wine  were  turned 
into  gold  because  he  was  a hard-hearted  miser.  I condemn 
you  to  this  punishment  if  you  have  the  courage  to  listen  to 
my  story  without  being  moved  to  tears  and  generosity!” 

With  deep  pathos  and  eloquence  Schiller  recounted  to  his 


298 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


listening  friends  his  midnight  adventure,  his  conversation 
with  the  poor  youth  who  had  attempted  to  take  his  own  life. 
So  graphic  was  his  representation  of  the  unfortunate  youth’s 
distress  and  vain  struggles,  that  the  hearts  of  his  hearers  were 
deeply  touched,  and  no  eye  remained  dry. 

When  he  had  concluded  his  narrative  and  told  his  friends 
of  the  promise  he  had  made  to  poor  Theophilus,  Schiller  arose 
from  his  seat,  took  the  plate  which  lay  before  him,  and 
walked  around  the  table,  halting  at  each  seat  and  extending 
his  plate  like  a beggar,  with  soft  words  of  entreaty.  When 
the  ready  hands  opened  and  dollars  and  gold-pieces  rang  out 
on  the  plate,  Schiller  inclined  his  head  and  smiled,  thanking 
the  givers  with  looks  of  tenderness. 

Now  he  had  returned  to  his  seat  and  was  counting  the 
money.  “ Seventeen  gold-pieces  and  thirty  dollars.  I thank 
you,  my  friends!  You  have  saved  a human  life;  you  have 
redeemed  a soul  from  purgatory!  To-morrow  night  I will 
take  this  love-offering  to  the  poor  youth ; the  blessing  of  a 
good  man  will  then  rest  on  your  closed  eyelids,  and  you  will 
be  rewarded  with  sweet  dreams  and  a happy  awakening. 
Now,  my  dear  friends,  you  shall  receive  from  the  poet’s  lips 
the  thanks  that  are  glowing  in  my  heart.  Now,  you  shall 
hear  the  exulting  song  to  joy  which  Körner  supposed  the 
Muses  were  whispering  in  my  ear.  Eaise  your  glasses  and 
listen;  when  I incline  my  head  repeat  the  words  last  spoken.’' 

Schiller  arose,  drew  a small,  folded  sheet  of  paper  from  his 
pocket,  opened  it,  glanced  over  it  hastily,  and  then  let  it  fall 
on  the  table.  He  did  not  require  it ; his  song  resounded  in 
his  mind  and  brain ; it  was  written  on  the  tablets  of  his  hearty 
and  his  lips  now  uttered  it  exultantly: 

“Joy,  thou  brightest  heaven-lit  spark, 

Daughter  from  the  Elysian  choir, 

On  thy  holy  ground  we  walk, 

Reeling  with  ecstatic  fire  1” 

TIis  eyes  shone  with  enthusiasm,  his  cheeks  glowed,  and  a 
heavenly  smile  illumined  his  whole  countenance,  while  recit- 


TOGETHER  ONCE  MORE. 


299 


ing  his  song  ‘‘  To  Joy.''  His  friends  caught  the  inspiration  of 
his  poem,  arose  with  one  accord  from  their  seats,  clasped 
hands  and  gazed  into  each  other’s  eyes — into  the  eyes  that 
shone  lustrously,  although  they  were  filled  with  tears.  Now, 
at  the  culminating  point  of  his  rapture,  Schiller’s  countenance 
suddenly  quivered  with  pain  as  he  recited  a second  verse  of 
his  song : 

“ Yea— who  calls  one  soul  his  own, 

One  on  all  earth’s  ample  round:— 

Who  cannot,  may  steal  alone, 

Weeping  from  our  holy  ground.” 

‘^Who  cannot,  may  steal  alone,  weeping  from  our  holy 
ground,"  repeated  his  friends.  The  tears  gushed  from  their 
eyes ; they  clasped  hands  more  firmly,  and  listened  breathlessly 
to  the  words  of  the  poet,  whose  voice  now  rose  again  to  the 
high  tones  of  enthusiasm.  It  was  almost  like  an  adoration  of 
joy,  friendship,  and  love.  Their  hearts  beat  higher,  mightier 
and  mightier  the  waves  of  rapture  surged  in  their  kindred  souls. 

“ Myriads  join  the  fond  embrace  1 
’Tis  the  world’s  inspiring  kiss. 

Friends,  yon  dome  of  starry  bliss 
Is  a loving  father’s  place.” 

They  embraced  each  other ; they  wept,  but  with  rapture, 
with  enthusiasm.  The  kiss  that  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth 
was  given  to  the  whole  world ; for  all  that  the  world  could 
offer  of  love,  of  friendship,  and  of  happiness,  the  friends 
found  combined  at  the  happy  festival  to  which  Schiller  had 
dedicated  his  song  To  Joy." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

TOGETHER  ONCE  MORE. 

Night  had  come,  a dark,  gloomy  night.  The  moonlight 
that  had  played  so  beautifully,  on  the  rippling  waters  of  the 
Elbe,  a week  before,  was  wanting  on  this  night.  The  sky  was 
overcast,  and  the  clouds  that  were  being  driven  through  the 
20 


300 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


heavens  by  the  wind,  cast  on  the  river  dark  shadows  that 
looked  like  yawning  graves. 

Theophilus  stood  on  the  river  bank  at  the  same  place  where 
he  had  knelt  and  prayed  a week  before.  He  stood  there  gaz- 
ing at  the  dark  river  and  looking  up  from  time  to  time  at  the 
driving  clouds. 

“ If  he  should  not  respect  his  word,  if  he  should  not  be  able 
to  keep  his  promise,  because  no  generous  hearts  responded  to 
his  entreaties!  What  then?  Will  this  river  be  my  grave? 
Are  the  waves  murmuring  my  death-song?  No,  no ! be  brave, 
Theophilus;  wait  patiently,  be  strong  in  hope!  His  voice 
was  so  gentle,  so  full  of  conviction,  when  he  promised  to  meet 
me  here  to-night,  to  bring  me  help ! He  appeared  before  me 
like  the  angel  Gabriel ; I will  believe  that  God  sent  him  in 
human  form,  and  that  he  will  also  send  him  a second  time. 
Hope,  my  heart,  and  be  strong  in  faith!’' 

He  folded  his  hands  in  silent  prayer,  and  listened  anxiously 
^0  every  slight  noise  other  than  the  murmuring  of  the  waves 
on  the  shore,  and  the  rustling  of  the  wind  in  the  trees,  that 
broke  in  upon  the  stillness  of  the  night.  Some  distance 
up  the  river,  on  its  opposite  bank,  lay  the  city  with  its  many 
lights.  On  the  Elbe  bridge,  towering  conspicuously  above 
all  other  objects,  stood  the  gilded  crucifix,  surrounded  by  a 
circle  of  lighted  lamps,  placed  there  by  pious  hands. 

Theophilus  saw  this  crucifix,  and  it  awakened  pious 
thoughts  and  brave  resolutions  in  his  breast.  “ I will  endure 
all  that  may  befall  me  in  patience  and  hope.  By  resignation 
and  pious  devotion,  I will  endeavor  to  atone  for  the  sins  com- 
mitted in  my  despair.  My  whole  life  belongs  to  Thee,  my 
God,  and  shall  be  dedicated  to  Thy  service ! I will  serve  the 
poor  and  the  unfortunate.  Every  man  who  suffers  shall  be 
my  brother,  to  every  man  who  stumbles  will  I extend  a help- 
ing hand.  I will  strive  to  dry  the  tears  of  the  weeping,  and, 
if  I can  do  nothing  else,  I will,  at  least,  pray  with  them. 
This,  I swear  to  Thee,  my  God ! — this  I swear  by  yon  lumi- 
nous crucifix!” 


TOGETHER  ONCE  MORE. 


301 


The  great  bell  resounded  from  the  tower  of  the  Catholic 
Church,  striking  the  eleventh  hour.  Theophilus  shuddered ; 
he  remembered  that  he  had  heard  this  bell  at  the  moment 
when  he  was  on  the  point  of  plunging  into  his  watery  grave, 
and  that  it  had  then  resounded  on  his  ear  like  a death-knell. 

‘‘  Never  will  I hear  this  hour  strike  without  fear  and  trem- 
bling. It  will  always  sound  to  me  like  the  knell  of  the 
doomed  criminal.  Grant,  0 God,  that  in  such  an  hour  I 
may  prove  myself  a repentant  sinner,  and  make  atonement 
for  my  crime!  I resolve  that  I will  do  so,”  cried  he,  in  a 
loud  voice.  “ I swear  that  this  eleventh  hour  shall  each  day 
remind  me  of  my  crime,  and  find  me  ready  to  devote  to  the 
welfare  of  mankind  the  life  I was  about  to  sacrifice  to 
despair.” 

“In  the  name  of  God  and  humanity  I accept  your  vow!” 
said  a solemn  voice  behind  him.  “ Here  I am,  my  brother. 
Forgive  me  for  having  kept  you  waiting,  but  important  busi- 
ness prevented  my  coming  earlier,  and  I found  it  difficult  to 
steal  away  from  the  friends  who  were  with  me,  without  at- 
tracting observation.  While  awaiting  me,  you  have  formed 
good  resolutions,  and  made  your  peace  with  God  and  your 
conscience.  Hold  fast  to  them,  my  brother;  be  firm  and 
brave.  Elevate  your  thoughts  above  things  perishable,  let 
your  soul  soar  above  the  vanities  of  earthly  existence,  and  you 
will  find  that  spiritual  joys  will  amply  console  you  for  the 
sorrows  of  earth.  Here  is  the  money  I have  brought  you, 
here  are  one  hundred  and  twenty  dollars.  According  to  your 
calculation  it  will  suffice  to  enable  you  to  complete  your 
studies,  and  give  you  a start  in  your  career.  Take  the 
money,  my  friend,  and  let  us  part.” 

“ Part!  without  giving  me  the  name  of  my  benefactor  and 
saviour?”  asked  Theophilus,  holding  the  hand,  that  had 
given  him  the  money,  firmly  clasped  in  his  own.  “Part! 
and  may  I never  hope  to  see  and  thank  you  in  the  light  of 
day?” 

“ Thank  me,  my  brother,  by  being  happy.  Bear  the  light 


302 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


of  day  within  you,  and  then  I shall  be  rewarded,  then  my 
memory  will  live  in  your  heart.  Why  should  I tell  you  my 
name?  I am  your  brother,  let  that  suffice.  Go  on  your  way, 
be  just,  and  do  good  to  others  who  are  suffering  and  who  are 
unhappy,  as  you  were.  This  shall  be  my  thanks : I say  to 
you,  with  Christ:  ‘What  you  do  to  the  least  of  these  my 
brethren,  that  you  have  done  unto  me.’  Bear  this  in  mind!’* 

The  voice  was  silent ; Theophilus  knew  that  he  was  again 
alone.  He  folded  his  hands,  bowed  his  head,  and  prayer- 
fully repeated  the  words,  that,  in  the  stillness  of  the  night, 
and  amid  the  rustling  of  the  wind,  had  resounded  on  his  ear 
like  the  solemn  tones  of  an  organ.  “ What  you  do  to  the  least 
of  these  my  brethren,  that  you  have  done  unto  me.  Bear 
this  in  mind!” 

“ I will  bear  this  in  mind ! I will  endeavor  to  atone  for 
the  evil  I have  done!  I dedicate  myself  to  God’s  service. 
The  holy  crucifix,  that  illumines  the  surrounding  darkness, 
has  also  illumined  the  darkness  of  my  soul.  I will  go  to 
Cologne,  and  enter  the  seminary,  in  order  that  I may  become 
a priest — a pious,  humble  priest  of  the  Church  of  Godr 
Farewell!  earthly  vanity,  earthly  pride,  and  earthly  hope!  I 
will  be  a priest  of  mercy,  for  God  has  shown  me  mercy,  and 
sent  an  angel-messenger  to  save  me.  I will  bear  this  in 
mind!” 

While  Theophilus  was  wending  his  way  to  Dresden,  Schil- 
ler was  journeying  toward  Weimar  in  the  stage-coach.  After 
giving  Theophilus  the  money  collected  for  him,  Schiller  had 
hurried  to  the  post-office,  where  his  friends  were  waiting  to 
take  leave  of  him,  and  bid  the  traveller  a last  farewell. 

“Farewell!  We  shall  soon  meet  again;  I will  soon  re- 
turn!” cried  Schiller  from  the  stage-coach,  as  it  rolled  out  of 
the  court-yard  on  through  the  city  gate  into  the  soft  summer 
night. 

“ Charlotte  is  awaiting  me!’*  murmured  Schiller,  as  he  sank 
back  on  the  hard  cushions.  “ Charlotte  is  awaiting  me.  She 
is  the  friend  of  my  soul.  Our  spirits  belong  to  each  other, 


TOGETHER  ONCE  MORE. 


303 


and  I will  show  my  friend  the  wounds  of  my  heart,  in  order 
that  she  may  heal  them  with  the  balsam  of  tender  friendship/* 
But,  strange  to  say,  the  nearer  he  came  to  his  journey’s 
end,  the  more  joyfully  his  heart  throbbed,  the  less  painful  its 
wounds  became. 

“ Charlotte,  dear  Charlotte,  if  I were  but  already  with  you ! 
I feel  that  the  fire  which  drove  me  from  Mannheim  is  not  yet 
extinguished ; a breath  from  your  lips  will  suffice  to  kindle 
the  spark  into  a conflagration.** 

There  is  Weimar!  Now  the  stage-coach  has  entered  the 
city.  Schiller  is  on  classic  ground!  On  the  ground  where 
Germany’s  greatest  poets  and  intellects  dwell.  Wieland  and 
Herder,  Bertuch  and  Bode,  dwell  here;  here  are  also  many 
artists  and  actors  of  eminence,  and  here  lives  the  genial  Duke 
Charles  August!  And  yet  Weimar  is  desolate,  for  Goethe  is 
not  here ; he  left  more  than  a year  ago. 

Schiller  knew  this,  but  what  did  he  care  now ! He  had  so 
longed  to  tread  this  classic  ground  that  his  heart  throbbed 
with  joy  at  the  prospect  of  seeing  and  becoming  acquainted 
with  the  celebrated  men  whose  works  he  had  read  with  so 
much  enthusiasm — whom  he  could  now  meet  with  the  feeling 
that  he  was  not  unworthy  of  them,  and  that  he  also  now  filled 
a place  in  the  republic  of  intellect. 

He  had  been  occupied  with  these  thoughts  during  the 
whole  journey ; but  now  they  suddenly  vanished.  He  thought 
only  of  Madame  von  Kalb,  the  friend  he  had  not  seen  for 
two  years — the  friend  whose  dear  lips  had  called  him  to  her 
side  in  the  hour  of  his  deepest  distress. 

He  had  taken  lodgings  in  the  chief  hotel  of  the  city;  it  was 
already  quite  late  in  the  evening,  so  late  that  it  seemed  hardly 
proper  to  call  on  a lady.  He  would  not  remain  in  his  solitary 
chamber,  but  would  walk  out,  and  at  least  look  at  the  house 
in  which  she  lived.  If  the  lights  had,  however,  not  yet  been 
extinguished,  if  she  should  still  be  awake — He  did  not  com- 
plete this  thought,  but  sprang  down  the  steps,  ordered  the 
servant,  who  was  walking  to  and  fro  in  the  hall,  to  accompany 


304 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


him  and  show  him  the  house  in  which  Madame  von  Kalb 
lived,  and  rushed  down  the  designated  street  with  such  long 
and  rapid  strides  that  the  servant  could  scarcely  follow  him. 

There  is  the  house  in  which  Madame  von  Kalb  lives,  a 
modest  little  house  at  the  entrance  of  the  park.  A light  is 
still  burning  behind  the  basement  windows,  and  he  sees  the 
shadow  of  a tall  woman  pass  across  the  closed  curtains. 
^‘That  is  her  figure,  I would  recognize  it  among  thousands! 
That  is  Charlotte!” 

“I  intend  to  enjoy  this  beautiful  summer  night  in  the 
park,”  said  Schiller,  turning  to  the  servant,  with  a hasty 
movement.  “ You  may  return,  I will  be  able  to  find  my  way 
back,  alone.” 

As  soon  as  the  servant  had  vanished  around  the  next  cor- 
ner, he  walked  up  to  the  door  and  opened  it  very  softly,  in 
order  that  the  bell  above  it  might  not  betray  his  entrance. 
*‘I  will  take  her  by  surprise,”  murmured  he  to  himself;  ‘‘I 
will  see  what  effect  my  unexpected  coming  will  have  on  my 
dear  friend.” 

The  bell  rang  in  such  low  tones  that  it  could  certainly  not 
have  been  heard  in  the  room.  But  a servant  came  forward 
from  the  back  end  of  the  hall. 

‘‘  I call  at  Madame  von  Kalb’s  request.  She  is  in  this 
room,  is  she  not?” 

“ Madame  von  Kalb  is  in.  May  I have  the  honor  of  an- 
nouncing you?” 

“ It  is  unnecessary,  she  is  awaiting  me.  I can  enter  un- 
announced.” 

He  had  uttered  these  words  in  subdued  tones ; Charlotte 
must  not  hear  him,  must  know  nothing  of  his  arrival  until  he 
stood  before  her.  He  opened  the  door  noiselessly,  closed  it 
gently  behind  him,  and  now  stood  between  the  door  and  the 
heavy  velvet  curtain  that  hung  over  the  entrance.  He  could, 
however,  see  his  friend  through  an  opening  in  the  curtain. 
She  sat  reclining  on  the  sofa,  her  beautiful  eyes  gazing  dream- 
ingly  into  empty  space.  Her  cheeks  were  pale  with  inward 


TOGETHER  ONCE  MORE. 


305 


agitation,  and  a soft  smile  played  about  her  lips.  Of  whom 
was  she  thinking?  Of  whom  was  she  dreaming? 

“Charlotte!  dear  Charlotte!” 

She  uttered  a cry  and  sprang  up  from  her  seat. 

“Charlotte,  you  called  me  to  your  side,  and  here  I amt 
Will  you  not  welcome  me?” 

She  stood  as  though  incapable  of  utterance,  but  the  beauti- 
ful, the  loved  countenance,  with  its  proud  and  noble  expres- 
sion, its  rosy  lips,  and  soft  smile,  was  before  him.  Before  her 
stood  Schiller,  whom  she  had  yearned  for  since  they  last 
parted,  whom  she  had  loved  ardently  and  faithfully  for  two 
long,  long  years,  without  having  seen  him.  But,  now  he  was 
there,  he  stood  before  her  with  extended  arms.  She  thought 
nothing,  she  felt  nothing  more  than  that  Schiller  had  re- 
turned, and  was  once  more  at  her  side.  Happy,  blissful 
reunion ! 

“ Welcome,  my  Schiller ! welcome,  friend  of  my  soul !”  She 
threw  herself  on  his  bosom,  and  he  entwined  his  arms  around 
her,  as  though  they  were  two  chains  with  which  he  intended 
to  bind,  and  hold  her  forever.  Yes,  forever! 

“ Tell  me,  Charlotte,  that  you  love  me ! utter  the  word 
which  your  lips  refused  to  confess  in  Mannheim.  Do  not 
again  drive  me  out  into  the  darkness  of  life,  as  you  did  in 
Mannheim.  I am  weary  of  wandering,  and  am  disgusted 
with  the  world.  You  alone  are  true,  in  you  only  can  I con- 
fide. Accord  me  a home  where  I may  lay  down  my  head  and 
rest.  Tell  me,  Charlotte,  that  this  is  my  heart’s  home.  Tell 
me  that  you  love  me?  You  do  not  reply,  Charlotte?  Why 
are  you  silent?”  He  opened  his  arms  to  release  her,  that  he 
might  look  at  her.  But  she  did  not  raise  her  head,  she  still 
lay  on  his  breast.  She  had  fainted ! He  lifted  her  in  his 
arms,  carried  her  to  the  sofa,  and  knelt  down  beside  her. 
As  she  lay  there  with  closed  eyelids,  and  pale  lips,  he  bowed 
down  over  her  and  pressed  his  glowing  lips  to  hers,  entreat- 
ing her  to  return  to  life.  “ Charlotte,  friend,  awaken ! For- 
give me  for  having  dared  to  surprise  you  in  the  wilfulness  of 


306' 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


my  happiness.  Return  to  me,  friend  of  my  soul!  I will  be 
quiet  and  gentle,  will  sit  at  your  feet  like  a child,  and  bo 
contented  to  look  up  at  your  dear  countenance,  and  read  in 
your  eyes  that  you  love  me.  Open  these  dear  eyes ! Soul  of 
my  soul,  heart  of  my  heart,  let  me  hear  your  loved  voice! 
Give  me  a word  of  consolation,  of  hope,  of  love!” 

And  Charlotte,  called  by  the  voice  she  had  longed  to  hear 
for  two  long  years,  awoke,  and  looked  up  lovingly  into  the 
countenance  of  him  who  was  the  sun  of  her  existence.  She 
entwined  her  arms  around  his  neck  and  kissed  his  lips  and  his 
eyes.  “I  greet  you,  I kiss  you,  proclaimer  of  my  happiness.” 

“ You  must  tell  me  that  indeed  you  love  me.  My  heart 
thirsts  for  these  words;  it  is  wounded  and  bleeding,  and  you 
must  heal  it.  I will  drink  that  oblivion  from  your  lips, 
Charlotte,  that  will  make  me  forget  all,  save  that  you  love 
me.  It  is  disconsolate  to  be  alone  and  unloved ! I cling  to 
your  heart  as  the  shipwrecked  mariner  clings  to  the  flower 
thrown  up  before  him  by  the  waves,  hoping  thereby  to  save 
himself.  Charlotte,  do  not  let  me  sink,  save  me ! Let  me 
seek  safety  from  the  storm  in  the  haven  of  your  love ! Say 
that  you  will  let  me  seek  and  And  peace,  enthusiasm,  and 
happiness,  in  this  longed-for  haven.” 

She  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and  pressed  a kiss  on 
his  forehead.  love  you,  Schiller,  I love  you;  I have  the 
courage  to  tell  you  so,  and  to  break  through  all  barriers,  and 
place  myself  at  your  side.  I have  the  courage  to  testify  be- 
fore the  whole  world,  and  even  to  confess  to  my  husband:  ‘I 
love  Frederick  Schiller.  Our  souls  and  hearts  are  bound  to- 
gether. Tear  them  asunder,  if  you  can!’  I love  you,  and 
with  that  I have  said  all — have  said,  that  I will  be  yours  be- 
fore God  and  man,  and  that  nothing  shall  longer  separate  us.” 

‘‘And  your  husband?”  asked  Schiller,  anxiously. 

“lie  is  a good  and  generous  man,”  said  Charlotte,  smiling. 
“Tie  will  not  desire  to  hold  me  fettered  to  himself  against  my 
wish.  Our  union  was  based  on  convenience  and  interest,  and 
was  never  a happy  one.  We  have  lived  together  but  little; 


TOGETHER  ONCE  MORE. 


307 


onr  natures  were  entirely  different.  I have  lived  in  retire- 
ment, while  my  husband  has  passed  his  time  in  luxury  and 
amusements  at  the  court  of  Queen  Marie  Antoinette,  where  he 
is  a welcome  guest.  We  respect  and  esteem,  hut  we  do  not 
love  each  other.  When  I confess  my  love  and  plead  for  a 
divorce,  my  husband  will  certainly  give  his  consent.  Then  I 
can  belong  wholly  to  the  man  I not  only  love,  but  so  highly 
esteem  that  I joyfully  dedicate  myself  to  him  until  death,  and 
even  beyond  the  grave.’' 

“It  shall  be  as  you  say,  my  friend,”  cried  Schiller,  raising 
her  hand  to  his  lips.  “ Nothing  shall  separate  us,  and  even 
the  king  of  terrors  shall  have  no  terrors  for  us;  in  the  joyous- 
ness of  our  union  of  souls  we  will  defy  him.  Yes,  we  will 
defy  death,  and  the  whole  world!” 

They  kept  their  promises;  they  defied  the  whole  world; 
they  made  no  secret  of  their  union  of  hearts ; they  denied  to 
none  that  they  were  one  and  indivisible.  Charlotte  had  the 
heroism  to  defy  the  world  and  acknowledge  her  love  freely. 
She  had  the  courage  to  remain  whole  days  alone  with  Schiller 
in  her  little  house.  She  held  herself  aloof  from  society,  in 
order  that  Schiller  might  read  to  her  his  two  new  novels,  and, 
above  all,  his  ‘Don  Carlos.’  Nor  did  she  avoid  being  seen 
with  him  in  public.  How  could  she  deny  him  before  men, 
when  she  was  so  proud  of  him  and  of  his  love ! She  helped 
to  adorn  and  make  comfortable  the  little  apartments  he  had 
rented;  she  sent  him  carpets,  flower-vases,  chairs,  and  many 
other  things.  She  felt  that  she  was  his  mother,  his  sister, 
his  sweetheart,  and  his  friend.  In  the  ardor  of  her  passion, 
she  endeavored  to  combine  the  duties  of  these  four  persons  in 
herself ; she  felt  that  the  divine  strength  of  her  love  would 
enable  her  to  do  so.  In  her  confldence  and  guilelessness  of 
heart,  she  never  even  asked  herself  this  question:  Will  the 
man  I love  be  willing  to  rise  with  me  in  this  whirlwind  of 
passion,  to  soar  with  me  from  heaven  to  heaven,  and  to  revel 
in  ever-youthful,  celestial  thought  and  feeling,  regardless  of 
earthly  mutability? 


.308 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


Together,  they  visited  the  heroes  of  art  and  literature  in 
Weimar,  and,  together,  they  drove  out  to  Tiefurt,  where  the 
Duchess  Amelia  and  taken  up  her  summer  residence. 

The  duchess  gave  the  poet  of  “ Don  Carlos”  and  “ Fiesco” 
a cordial  welcome.  ‘‘  I was  angry  with  you  on  account  of 
your  ‘Eobbers,’  Mr.  Councillor,”  said  she,  “nor  was  ‘Louisf 
Müllerin’  entirely  to  my  taste.  But  ‘Fiesco,’  and,  above  all, 
‘Don  Carlos,’  have  reconciled  me  to  you.  You  are,  in  truth, 
a great  poet,  and  I prophesy  a brilliant  future  for  you. 
Eemain  here  with  us  in  Weimar!” 

“Yes,  Mr.  Schiller,”  cried  the  little  maid  of  honor  Von 
Göckhausen,  as  she  stepped  forward,  courtesied  gracefully, 
and  handed  him  a rose,  “remain  in  Weimar.  The  muses 
have  commanded  me  to  give  you  their  favorite,  this  rose,  and 
to  tell  you,  sub  rosa^  that  Weimar  is  the  abode  of  the  gods,  and 
that  the  nine  maidens  would  be  well  contented  to  remain  here.” 

“ Göckhausen,  take  care,”  said  the  Duchess,  laughing.  “I 
will  tell  Goethe  what  a fickle,  faithless  little  thing  you  are. 
While  he  was  here,  my  Thusnelda’s  roses  bloomed  for  him 
only,  and  for  Goethe  only  was  she  the  messenger  of  the  gods 
and  muses.  Now,  the  faithless  creature  is  already  receiving 
messages  from  the  muses  for  Frederick  Schiller!  But  she  is 
not  to  be  blamed;  the  poet  of  ‘Don  Carlos’  deserves  homage; 
and,  when  even  the  muses  worship  Goethe  and  Schiller,  why 
should  not  Göckhausen  do  it  also?  Do  you  know  Goethe?” 

“No,  not  personally,”  replied  Schiller,  softly;  “but  I ad- 
mire him  as  a poet,  and  I shall  be  happy  if  I can  some  day 
admire  and  love  him  as  a man  also.” 

“You  should  have  come  earlier,”  sighed  the  duchess. 
“ You  should  have  made  his  acquaintance  during  the  early 
days  of  his  stay  in  Mannheim.  Then,  you  would  indeed  have 
loved  him.  At  that  time,  he  was  in  the  youthful  vigor  of  his 
enthusiasm.  It  was  a beautiful  era  when  Goethe  stood  among 
us,  like  the  genius  of  poetry,  descended  from  heaven,  enfiam- 
ing  our  liearts  with  lieavenly  rapture.  He  is  still  a great 
poet,  but  he  lias  now  become  a man  of  rank — a privy-council- 


TOGETHER  ONCE  MORE. 


309 


lor!  Beware,  my  dear  Councillor  Schiller,  lest  our  court 
atmosphere  stiffen  you,  too,  and  rob  your  heart  of  its  youth- 
ful freshness  of  enthusiasm.  Goethe  was  a very  god  Apollo 
before  he  became  a privy-councillor,  and  was  entitled  to  a 
seat  and  voice  in  the  state  council.  By  all  means  avoid  be- 
coming a minister;  the  poet  and  the  minister  cannot  be  com® 
bined  in  one  man.  Of  this,  Goethe  is  an  example.'' 

"‘No,  he  is  not,"  cried  Gockhausen,  eagerly;  “Goethe  can 
be  all  that  it  pleases  him  to  be.  He  will  never  indeed  cease 
to  be  a poet;  he  is  one  in  his  whole  being.  Poetic  blood 
courses  through  his  veins ; the  minister  he  can  shake  off  at 
any  time,  and  be  himself  again.  This  he  proved  some  eigh- 
teen months  ago,  when  he  suddenly  took  leave  of  our  court 
and  all  its  glories,  and  fled  from  the  state  council,  and  all  his 
dignities  and  honors,  to  Italy.  He  cast  all  this  trumpery  of 
ducal  grace  behind  him,  and  fled  to  Italy,  to  be  the  poet  by 
the  grace  of  God  only!" 

“ See,  my  Thusnelda  has  returned  to  her  old  enthusiasm!" 
cried  the  duchess,  laughing.  “ That  was  all  I desired ; I only 
wished  to  arouse  her  indignation,  and  make  her  love  for 
Goethe  apparent. — Now,  Mr.  Schiller,  you  see  what  my  Thus- 
nelda’s  real  sentiments  are,  and  how  true  she  is  to  her  distant 
favorite." 

“ Much  truer,  probably,  than  he  is  to  his  former  favorites,  ' 
said  Gockhausen,  smiling.  “ Men  cannot  be  true ; and  I am 
satisfied  that  Werther,  if  he  had  not  shot  himself  prematurely, 
would  subsequently  have  consoled  himself,  although  the  adored 
Lotte  was  married,  and  could  never  be  his.  Laugh  on,  duch- 
ess! I am  right,  nevertheless.  Is  not  Goethe  himself  an 
example  of  this?  Did  he  not  love  Charlotte  von  Kästner? 
If  he  had  shot  himself  at  that  time,  he  could  not  have  con- 
soled himself  afterwards  with  Charlotte  von  Stein,  to  become 
desperate  once  more,  and  Anally  to  take  a pleasant  and  con- 
solatory trip  to  Italy,  instead  of  leaving  the  world.  Truly, 
the  Charlottes  are  very  dangerous  to  poets;  but  I would, 
however,  advise  each  and  every  one  of  them  to  beware  of 


310 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


falling  in  love  with  a poet,  for — how  forgetful  I am ! I beg 
your  pardon,  Madame  von  Kalb!” 

Why,  my  dear  young  lady?” 

“ Because  I did  not  remember  that  you,  too,  were  a Char- 
lotte,” murmured  the  malicious  maid  of  honor,  meekly. 

Von  Kalb  laughed,  but  she  was  more  subdued  and  thought- 
ful after  this  visit  than  usual.  Her  eyes  often  rested  on 
Schiller  with  a peculiar,  inquiring  look,  and  when  he  sat  at 
her  side  on  the  sofa  that  evening,  she  laid  her  hands  gently 
on  his  shoulders  and  gazed  intently  into  his  countenance. 

“You  love  me,  Schiller,  do  you  not?” 

“ I love  you,  although  you  are  a Charlotte.  That  is  the 
question  you  intended  to  ask,  is  it  not?” 

She  smiled  and  laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder.  “ Schiller, 
I would  that  our  union  of  heart  and  soul  had  already  received 
its  indissoluble  consecration.  I would  that  my  husband  had 
already  given  his  consent  to  a separation  and  I were  wholly 
yours.” 

“Are  you  not  truly  and  wholly  mine?  Is  not  our  union 
indissoluble?  Does  not  God,  does  not  the  whole  world  know 
that  we  are  one  and  inseparable?  Does  not  society  respect 
and  treat  our  relation  to  each  other  with  consideration  for 
both  of  us?  The  people  with  whom  we  come  in  contact  have 
the  discretion  to  leave  us  when  they  observe  that  we  wish  to 
be  alone.  Did  not  Von  Einsiedel,  who  called  on  you  this 
evening,  leave  again  when  the  servant  told  him  that  I was 
with  you?  Was  not  even  the  Duchess  Amelia  so  considerate 
as  to  invite  us  together  yesterday ; for  that  she  did  so  out  of 
consideration  for  the  relation  existing  between  us,  Wieland 
told  me.*  You  see,  therefore,  my  dearest  friend,  that  no 
one  doubts,  or  ignores  our  union.” 

“Why  do  you  call  me  your  dearest  friend?”  asked  she, 
anxiously. 

“Why?  Because  you  are.  Is  it  not  your  opinion,  also, 
that  friendship  is  the  highest  power  of  love?” 

* Scbiller’ö  own  words.— See  his  correspondence  with  Körner. 


TOGETHER  ONCE  MORE. 


311 


She  said  yes,  but  she  was  very  thoughtful  after  Schiller  had 
gone.  “ I would  that  my  husband  were  here,  and  that  the 
word  of  separation  had  already  been  spoken!’'  she  murmured. 

Several  months  passed  before  her  husband  arrived  in  Wei- 
mar. Madame  had  not  been  able  to  endure  this  uncertainty, 
this  continued  hypocrisy-  She  had  written  to  her  husband, 
confessing  her  love  and  her  relation  to  Schiller,  and  begging 
him,  as  her  best  friend,  to  give  her  his  advice  and  to  promote 
her  happiness. 

Her  husband  had  replied  at  once  as  follows : “ My  dear 
friend,  for  the  very  reason  that  I am,  as  you  say,  your  best 
friend,  I will  treat  your  letter  as  though  I had  not  received 
it.  It  is  obliterated  from  my  memory,  and  I only  know  that 
I love  and  esteem  you  as  the  mother  of  my  little  boy,  and  that 
the  dearest  wish  of  my  heart  is  your  happiness.  Let  us  leave 
these  little  afflictions  of  the  heart  to  time,  the  great  healer. 
I am  coming  to  Weimar  in  a few  months,  and  we  shall  then 
see  if  time  has  not  exercised  its  healing  properties  on  yourself 
and  on  the  heart  of  an  easily-excited  poet.  If  this  should  not 
be  the  case,  however,  and  you  should  then  repeat  the  words 
written  in  your  letter,  it  will  still  be  time  to  see  whether  the 
desires  of  your  heart  can  be  gratified  without  detriment  to 
our  son’s  interests.  Let  us,  therefore,  postpone  the  decision 
for  a few  months.” 

He  had  also  written  to  Schiller,  but  without  any  reference 
to  Charlotte’s  communications.  His  letter  was  full  of  quite 
hearty  sympathy,  profound  admiration  for  the  poet,  and  earnest 
assurances  of  friendship.  He  concluded  by  announcing  that 
he  would  come  to  Weimar  in  a few  months,  and  that  Schiller 
would  find  him  ready  to  do  him  any  service,  and  to  make  any 
sacrifice  for  him  that  the  poet  could  expect  at  the  hands  of  a 
friend. 

Schiller  folded  the  letter  thoughtfully,  and  a glowing  color 
suffused  itself  over  his  cheeks.  “He  will  come,”  said  he  to 
himself,  in  a low  voice.  “ It  will  be  a strange  meeting  for  me, 
I already  blush  with  shame  when  I think  of  it.  He  loves  me. 


312 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


he  calls  me  his  friend,  and  yet  he  knows  all ! Will  I really 
have  the  courage  to  demand  this  sacrifice  of  a friend,  and — 
asked  he  in  a low  voice — “ and  do  I really  so  ardently  desire 
this  sacrifice?  I came  here  to  seek  consolation  from  a dear 
friend,  and  I found  love — love  that  has  drawn  me  into  the 
whirlpool  of  passion.  We  are  both  being  driven  around  in 
its  eddying  circles,  and  who  knows  but  that  marriage  is  the 
sunken  reef  on  which  our  hearts  will  ultimately  be  ship- 
wrecked. Save  us  from  a violent  end,  thou  Spirit  of  the 
Universe;  save  me  from  such  an  end,  thou  genius  of  poetry; 
let  me  fly  to  some  peaceful  haven  where  I can  find  safety  from 
the  storms  of  life!  There  is  a mystery  in  every  human 
breast ; it  is  given  to  God  only  and  to  time,  to  solve  it.  Let 
us,  therefore,  wait  and  hope!’' 

When  her  husband  arrived  in  Weimar  a few  months  after- 
ward, this  mystery  seemed  to  have  sunk  deeper  in  Charlotte 
and  Schiller’s  hearts;  neither  of  them  had  the  courage  to  lift 
the  veil  and  speak  the  decisive  word.  Charlotte  was  paler 
and  quieter  than  usual,  and  her  eyes  were  often  stained  with 
tears,  but  she  did  not  complain  and  made  no  attempt  to  bring 
her  husband  to  an  explanation. 

Only  once,  when  she  held  her  little  boy,  who  had  just  re- 
covered from  an  attack  of  illness,  lovingly  in  her  arms,  her 
husband  stepped  up  to  her,  and  gave  her  a kind,  inquiring 
look: 

‘‘  Could  you  ever  make  up  your  mind  to  leave  this  child, 
Charlotte — to  deliver  it  over  to  the  care  of  a stranger.” 

“Never,  no,  never!”  cried  she,  folding  her  arms  tenderly 
around  her  delicate  little  boy.  “ No,  not  for  all  the  treas- 
ures— for  all  the  happiness  earth  can  offer,  could  I part  with 
my  darling  child!” 

“ And  yet  you  would  be  compelled  to  do  so,  if  you  should 
lay  aside  the  name  your  child’s  father  bears,”  said  her  hus- 
band, gently. 

Tie  made  no  explanation  of  his  words,  but  his  wife  had  well 
understood  him,  and  also  understood  his  intention  when. 


TOGETHER  ONCE  MORE. 


313 


alter  a short  interval,  he  smilingly  observed  that  he  would 
now  go  to  see  Schiller,  and  take  a walk  with  his  dear 
friend. 

When  her  husband  had  left  the  room  she  looked  down  at 
the  pale  child,  who  was  slumbering  in  her  arms.  Tears 
gushed  from  her  eyes,  and  she  folded  her  hands  over  her  boy’s 
head: 

“ Give  us  all  peace.  Thou  who  art  the  Spirit  of  Eternal 
Love!  Give  us  wisdom  to  discern  truth  and  strength,  to 
make  any  sacrifice  in  its  behalf!” 

On  the  evening  of  this  day,  after  a long  walk  which  Schil- 
ler had  taken  with  Charlotte’s  husband,  and  during  which 
they  had  conversed  on  the  highest  intellectual  topics  only, 
Schiller  wrote  to  his  bosom  friend  Körner,  in  Dresden : “ Can 
you  believe  me  when  I assert,  that  I find  it  almost  impossible 
to  write  anything  concerning  Charlotte?  Nor  can  I even 
tell  you  why ! The  relation  existing  between  us,  like  revealed 
religion,  is  based  on  faith.  The  results  of  the  long  experience 
and  slow  progress  of  the  human  mind  are  announced  in  the 
latter  in  a mystical  manner,  because  reason  would  have  taken 
too  long  a time  to  attain  this  end.  The  same  is  the  case  with 
Charlotte  and  myself.  We  commenced  with  a premonition  of 
the  result,  and  must  now  study  and  confirm  our  religion  by 
the  aid  of  reason.  In  the  latter,  as  in  the  former  case,  all  the 
intervals  of  fanaticism,  skepticism,  and  superstition,  have 
arisen,  and  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  we  will  ultimately  arrive  at 
that  reasonable  faith  that  is  the  only  assurance  of  bliss.  I 
think  it  likely  that  the  germ  of  an  enduring  friendship  exists 
in  us  both,  but  it  is  still  awaiting  its  development.  There  is 
more  unity  in  Charlotte’s  mind  than  in  my  own,  although 
she  is  more  changeable  in  her  humors  and  caprices.  Solitude 
and  a peculiar  tendency  of  her  being  have  imprinted  my 
image  more  firmly  in  her  soul,  than  her  image  could  ever  be 
imprinted  in  mine.  Her  husband  treats  me  precisely  as  of 
yore,  although  he  is  well  aware  of  the  relation  existing  be- 
tween us.  I do  not  know  that  his  presence  will  leave  me  as  I 


314 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


am.  I feel  that  a change  has  taken  place  within  me  that  may 
be  still  further  developed.”  * 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

GOETHE  AND  MORITZ. 

“ Cheer  up,  my  friend!  Grumble  no  longer!  Rejoice  in 
life  and  throw  off  the  burden  of  your  cares ! Open  your  eyes 
and  behold  the  beauties  of  the  world  created  by  the  Almighty 
Spirit  of  the  Universe!  We  have  studied  and  worshipped  the 
immortal  gods  and  immortal  arts  in  Rome — we  have  been 
living  with  the  ancients ; now  let  us  live  for  a few  days  with 
eternal  youth,  with  ever-fading,  ever-blossoming  Nature! 
Let  us  live  like  God’s  children  in  His  glorious  world!” 

It  was  Goethe  who  spoke  these  words — not  Goethe,  the 
secretary  of  legation,  who,  at  the  end  of  the  year  1786,  had 
secretly  withdrawn  from  his  friends,  and  even  from  his  be- 
loved Madame  von  Stein,  and  fled  to  Italy,  the  land  he  so 
ardently  desired  to  visit.  No,  it  was  not  that  Goethe,  who, 
during  the  last  months  of  his  sojourn  in  Weimar,  had  es- 
chewed his  youthful  exuberance  of  feeling,  his  exaggerated 
manner,  and  his  Werther  costume,  and  had  assumed  the  grave 
dignifled  air  which  he  deemed  becoming  in  a high  official ! 
No,  he  who  spoke  these  words,  was  the  poet  Johann  Wolf- 
gang Von  Goethe,  the  poet  who  was  once  more  himself,  now 
that  he  sojourned  under  Italy’s  glorious  skies — the  poet  whose 
soul  glowed  with  enthusiasm,  and  on  whose  lips  inspiration 
trembled — the  poet  who  sought  the  essence  of  the  Divinity  in 
the  least  flower,  and  who  saw  the  glory  of  his  Maker  reflected 
in  the  countenance  of  each  human  being. 

This  Goethe  it  was  who  spoke  these  cheering,  encouraging 
words.  He  addressed  them  to  Philip  Moritz,  with  whom  he 
had  been  living  in  Rome,  and  other  parts  of  Italy,  for  the  last 
two  years,  and  with  whom  he  had  rejoiced  and  sorrowed  in 

♦ Schiller  and  his  Times,  by  Johannes  Scherr.— Vol.  ii.,  p.  89. 


GOETHE  AND  MORITZ. 


315 


many  pleasures  and  vicissitudes.  They  had  both  come  to 
Italy  to  make  new  men  of  themselves.  Goethe,  to  become 
himself  again — to  become  the  original,  creative  genius.  Mo- 
ritz, to  heal  his  heart- wounds,  and  refresh  his  mind  with  the 
wonders  of  art  and  nature  that  abound  for  every  man,  who 
has  eyes  to  see,  in  Italy — this  land  of  art  and  poetry.  Philip 
Moritz  had  eyes  to  see,  and  the  woman  he  loved  had  begged 
him  not  to  close  them,  not  to  shut  out  from  his  vision  the 
treasures  which  the  God  of  creation  and  the  gods  of  art  had 
so  plentifully  bestowed  upon  this  favored  land. 

Marie  von  Leuthen  was  the  woman  of  his  love,  and  she  it 
was  who  had  entreated  him  to  go  to  Italy,  that  he  might  re- 
cover from  the  wounds  life  had  inflicted,  his  grief  be  healed, 
and  hope  restored  to  his  heart. 

“ Go,”  she  had  said  to  him,  Italy  and  art  will  be  a healing 
balm  for  your  wounds.  Recover  from  them,  and  return  after 
two  years,  renewed  in  mind  and  constant  in  heart,  and  I will 
give  you  a joyful  answer  if  you  then  ask  me  if  I love  you.” 

Philip  Moritz  had  journeyed  to  Italy  as  she  bade  him.  On 
arriving  in  Rome  he  learned  that  Goethe  had  been  in  the  city 
for  some  time.  Moritz  at  once  sought  out  his  adored  poet, 
and  since  then  they  had  been  close  comrades.  He  admired 
and  worshipped  Goethe,  who  tenderly  loved  the  friend  (who 
was  often  so  gloomy,  and  whose  merriment  was  often  exagger- 
ated), in  spite  of  his  peculiarities.  Together  they  visited  the 
treasures  of  art  in  Rome ; together  they  made  excursions  to 
the  neighboring  villages  and  places  of  interest,  on  foot  or  on 
horseback,  as  the  case  might  be.  On  an  excursion  of  this 
kind  to  Frascati,  Moritz  had  been  thrown  from  his  horse,  and 
had  his  arm  broken.  Goethe  had  nursed  him  like  a brother; 
for  long  days  and  weeks  he  had  been  the  sufferer’s  only  con- 
soler and  associate. 

“ I have  just  left  Moritz,”  he  wrote  on  one  occasion  to  Ma- 
dame von  Stein.  ‘‘  The  bandages  were  to-day  removed  from 
his  arm,  and  it  appears  to  be  doing  well.  What  I have  ex- 
perienced and  learned  at  the  bedside  of  this  sufferer,  in  the 
21 


316 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


last  two  weeks,  may  be  of  benefit  to  us  both  in  the  future. 
During  this  period  he  was  perpetually  alternating  between 
the  greatest  misery  and  the  highest  delight.”  * 

This  “ greatest  misery”  the  poor  hypochondriac  had  borne 
in  silence.  The  “highest  delight,”  he  had  shared  with  his 
happier  friend,  with  Goethe,  the  favorite  of  the  gods. 

In  the  autumn  they  had  both  left  Eome,  and  gone  out  to 
Castel  Gandolfo,  to  pay  a visit  to  the  house  of  a hospitable 
friend.  Many  eminent  poets  and  artists  were  sojourning  at 
this  charming  place  at  that  time.  Gayety  and  merriment 
was  the  order  of  the  day.  It  was  in  vain  that  Goethe  en- 
deavored to  draw  his  friend  Moritz  into  this  magic  circle  of 
enjoyment.  It  grieved  him  deeply  to  see  his'friend  brooding 
over  his  studies,  to  see  the  sad  and  gloomy  expression  that 
rested  on  his  features.  Goethe’s  entreaties  and  exhortations 
were  at  times  successful  in  arousing  him  from  this  condition ; 
but,  after  a short  interval  of  forced  gayety  and  mocking 
merriment,  he  would  relapse  into  his  ordinary  state  of  silent 
melancholy. 

“ Let  us  live  as  God’s  children  in  His  glorious  world!” 

Moritz  raised  his  pale  countenance  from  the  book  over 
which  he  had  been  brooding,  and  looked  tenderly,  and  yet 
sadly,  at  Goethe. 

“Happy,  enviable  man,”  said  he.  “But  who  can  feel  and 
think  as  you  do?” 

“You  can,  Moritz,  if  you  only  try,”  cried  Goethe.  “But, 
above  all,  tell  me  what  burden  is  resting  on  your  soul,  and 
what  these  wrinkles  on  my  friend’s  brow  mean.” 

“They  mean  that  I have  a sad  presentiment,”  replied  Mo- 
ritz, with  a sigh,  as  he  threw  his  book  aside  and  rose  from  his 
seat.  “ I am  angry  with  myself  on  this  account,  and  I have 
sought  to  dispel  this  presentiment,  but  all  to  no  purpose! 
The  skies  of  Italy  are  no  longer  serene,  the  whole  world  seems 
like  a huge  grave;  of  late,  even  Rome’s  works  of  art  have  ap- 
pealed to  me  in  vain ; my  ear  has  been  deaf  to  their  sublime 
language.” 

♦ “Trip  to  Italy. ’’—Goethe’s  Works. 


GOETHE  AND  MORITZ. 


317 


“But,  speak  out,  growler,  monster,'*  cried  Goethe,  im- 
patiently, “ what  northern  spleen  has  again  penetrated  your 
northern  heart?  what  is  the  matter  with  you?  What  imps 
have  taken  up  their  abode  in  your  brain?  What  crickets  are 
fiddling  in  your  ears,  and  transforming  the  author,  the  lin- 
guist, and  the  sage  into  a miserable,  grief-stricken  old  woman, 
who  shuffles  along  through  God’s  beautiful  world,  and  bur- 
rows in  the  ground  like  a mole,  instead  of  soaring  upwards  to 
the  sun  like  an  eagle?" 

“Corpo  di  Bacco!"  cried  Moritz,  striking  the  table  so 
furiously  with  his  fists  that  he  sent  the  books  fiying  in  every 
direction,  and  upset  the  ink-bottle,  fiooding  his  papers  with 
its  black  contents.  “ Corpo  di  Bacco ! Enough  of  your  ridi- 
cule and  abuse!  How  dare  you  call  me  a miserable  old 
woman,  how  dare  you  compare  me  with  a mole?  How  dare 
you  make  yourself  merry  over  my  northern  heart?  You, 
above  all,  whose  heart  is  a lump  of  ice,  an  extinguished  coal, 
that  even  the  breath  of  a goddess  would  fail  to  enkindle!  If 
one  of  us  is  an  iceberg,  it  is  you,  Mr.  Johann  Wolfgang 
Goethe!  You  are  an  iceberg,  and  your  heart  can  never  thaw 
again,  but  will  remain  cofflned  in  an  eternal  winter.  What 
do  you  know  of  the  sufferings  of  a man  who  loves  the  fairest, 
the  best,  and  the  noblest  of  women,  and  who,  tormented  by 
terrible  forebodings  of  her  death,  tears  his  own  flesh  with  the 
serpent’s  tooth  of  care,  and  who  is  blinded  by  his  grief  to  all 
the  beauties  of  God’s  world!" 

“That  is  it,"  said  Goethe,  heartily,  “then  I have  attained 
my  object.  W^ith  the  iron  hammer  of  my  abuse  I have  beaten 
on  the  anvil  of  your  obdurate  temperament  until  I have  made 
the  sparks  fly  and  kindle  a fire.  That  was  all  I desired,  you 
overgrown,  harmless  child ; I only  called  you  an  old  woman 
in  order  to  awaken  the  man  in  you,  and  I now  beg  your  par- 
don a thousand  times  for  this  abuse.  He  who  has  seen  the 
old  shrews  that  infest  the  neighborhood  of  St.  Peter’s,  and 
has  suffered  from  their  visitations  in  the  Chiesa  Maria  della 
Pace,  knows  how  terrible  a creature  such  an  old  fright  is^  and 


318 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


how  offensive  it  is  to  be  compared  to  such  a personage.  I 
humbly  beg  your  pardon,  Philip  Moritz,  professor,  sage,  con- 
noisseur of  art,  and  first-class  etymologist.  But  as  for  your 
presentiments  and  your  fears  that  some  evil  may  have  befallen 
your  sweetheart,  permit  me  to  say  that  they  are  only  the 
vagaries  of  a lover  who  blows  soap-bubbles  into  the  air,  and 
afterward  trembles  lest  they  should  fall  on  his  head  as  cannon- 
balls. Why,  in  the  name  of  all  the  saints,  do  you  give  vent 
to  your  yearnings  in  trumpet  tones,  and  afterward  consider 
them  the  death-song  of  your  love?  Was  it  not  agreed  upon 
between  yon  two  lovesick  children  of  affliction  that  these  two 
years  of  your  sojourn  in  Italy  should  be  a trial  of  your  love 
and  fidelity?  Was  it  not  understood  that  you  were  not  to 
exchange  a single  letter  during  this  period?’' 

“Yes,  that  was  our  agreement,”  replied  Moritz.  “Marie 
would  have  it  so;  she  wished  to  try  me,  to  see  whether  I 
would  remain  faithful  and  constant  in  love,  even  among  the 
glories  of  Italy.” 

“Well,  then!  What  is  it  that  oppresses  you?  What  do 
these  lamentations  signify?  What  are  you  afraid  of?” 

“Do  not  laugh,  Goethe,”  murmured  Philip  Moritz.  “I 
will  tell  you,  a dream  has  tormented  and  alarmed  me;  a 
dream  that  has  returned  to  me  for  three  successive  nights.  I 
see  Marie  lying  on  her  couch  at  the  point  of  death,  her  cheeks 
pale  and  hollow,  her  eyes  dim  and  fixed ; old  Trude  kneels  at 
her  side  wringing  her  hands,  and  a voice  cries  in  my  ear  in 
heart-rending  tones : ‘Philip,  my  beloved  Philip,  come!  Let 
me  die  in  your  arms.  ’ This  is  the  dream  that  has  haunted 
me  for  three  nights ; these  are  the  words  that  have  each  time 
awakened  me  from  sleep,  and  they  still  resound  in  my  ear  when 
I am  fully  aroused.” 

“Dreams  amount  to  nothing,”  said  Goethe,  shrugging  his 
shoulders,  “ and  your  faith  in  them  proves  only  that  Cupid 
transforms  even  the  most  sensible  men  into  foolish  children, 
and  that  the  wanton  god  can  make  even  sages  irrational.” 

“ I would  he  made  you  so,  you  mocker  at  love  and  mar- 


GOETHE  AND  MORITZ. 


319 


riage,”  rejoined  Moritz,  grimly.  “I  would  like  to  see  you  a 
victim  of  this  divine  madness.  I trust  that  Cupid,  whom 
you  deride,  will  send  an  arrow  into  your  icy  heart  and  melt  it 
in  the  flames  of  inflnite  love-pains  and  heaven-storming  long- 
ings! I hope  to  see  you,  the  sage  who  has  fled  from  all  tho 
living  beauties,  from  all  the  living  women  here  in  Italy,  as 
though  they  were  serpents  of  Eden — I hope  to  see  you  com- 
pelled by  one  of  them  to  eat  of  the  apple,  and  experience  the 
dire  consequences!  I hope — 

‘^Hold,  rash  mortal!’'  said  Goethe,  interrupting  him,  with 
a smile.  “ You  know  that  children  and  fools  often  speak  the 
truth,  and  that  their  prophecies  often  become  realities.  It  is 
to  be  hoped  an  all-kind  Providence  will  preserve  me  from  a 
new  love,  from  new  flames.  No,  the  flres  of  love  have  been 
extinguished  in  my  heart;  in  the  warm  ashes  of  friendship 
that  still  remain,  a spark  may  sometimes  glimmer  sufficiently 
to  enable  me  to  read  the  name  of  my  beloved  friend,  Char- 
lotte von  Stein,  engraven  therein." 

“Warm  ashes  of  friendship,  indeed!"  osberved  Moritz,  in 
mocking  tones.  “ A sorry  tenant  for  the  heart  of  the  poet  of 
Werther." 

“ Really,"  cried  Goethe,  “I  believe  this  fellow  would  be 
capable  of  imploring  the  gods  to  visit  a ‘ Werthercade’  upon 
me." 

“ I not  only  would  be  capable  of  doing  so,  but  I really  will 
do  so,"  rejoined  Moritz.  “I  entreat  the  gods  to  bless  and 
curse  you  with  a heaven-storming,  bliss-conferring  and  an- 
nihilating love,  for  that  is  all  that  is  wanting  to  drive  the  last 
vestiges  of  humanity  out  of  you,  and  make  of  you  a demi-god 
with  a halo  of  love-flames  around  your  semi-divine  head. 
Yes,  Wolfgang  Goethe,  poet  by  the  grace  of  God,  to  whom 
the  immortal  have  vouchsafed  the  honor  of  creating  an  ‘Iphi- 
genia’  and  an  ‘Egmont’ — yes,  I hope  that  a glowing,  flaming, 
and  distracting  love,  may  be  visited  upon  you!" 

“That  you  should  not  do,"  said  Goethe,  gently,  “let  me 
make  a confession,  Moritz:  I believe  that  I am  not  capable  of 


320 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


such  a love — am  not  capable  of  losing  my  own  individuality  in 
that  of  another.  I am  not  capable  of  subjecting  all  other 
thoughts,  wishes,  and  cravings,  to  the  one  thought,  wish,  and 
craving  of  love.  Perhaps  this  was  at  one  time  my  condition, 
perhaps  my  Werther  spoke  of  my  own  life,  and  perhaps  this 
tragedy  was  written  with  the  blood  of  my  heart,  then  bleeding 
for  Charlotte  Kästner.  But  you  perceive  that  I did  not  shoot 
myself  like  Werther.  I have  steeled  my  heart  since  then  to 
enable  it  to  rely  on  its  own  strength,  and  to  prevent  its  ever 
being  carried  away  by  the  storm  of  passion,  I am  proof 
against  this,  and  will  ever  be  so!” 

“To  be  in  Borne!”  exclaimed  Moritz,  “in  Borne,  with  a 
heart  void  of  all  save  the  ashes  of  friendship  for  Charlotte  von 
Stein,  and  to  remain  cold  and  indifferent  to  the  most  beauti- 
ful women  in  the  world!” 

“That  is  not  true,  that  is  calumny!”  said  Goethe,  smiling. 
“ My  heart  is  not  cold,  but  glows  with  admiration  and  love 
for  the  noblest  and  loveliest  woman,  for  the  goddess  of  beauty, 
chastity,  and  virtue.  She  was  my  first  love  in  Borne,  and 
will  be  my  only  love.  I yearned  for  her  until  she  at  last 
yielded  to  my  entreaties,  and  took  up  her  abode  in  my  poor 
house.  Yes,  I possess  her,  she  is  mine!  No  words  can  give 
an  idea  of  her,  she  is  like  one  of  Homer’s  songs!”  * 

“I  would  like  to  know,”  cried  Moritz,  in  astonishment, 
“ yes,  really,  I would  like  to  know  of  whom  you  are  speaking !” 

“ I am  speaking  of  her,”  said  Goethe,  pointing  to  a colossal 
bust  of  the  Juno  Ludovisi,  that  stood  on  a high  pedestal  in  a 
corner  of  the  room.  He  approached  the  pedestal,  looked  up 
into  the  proud  and  noble  countenance  of  the  chaste  goddess, 
and  greeted  her  with  a radiant  smile. 

“ I greet  you,  mysterious  goddess,  on  whose  brow  love  and 
chastity  arc  enthroned ! When  I behold  you  I seem  to  hear 
words  of  revelation,  and  I then  know  that  you  refiect  all  that 
the  fancy  of  the  poets,  the  researches  of  the  learned,  and  the 
piety  of  priests,  ever  thought  or  depicted  that  is  sublime  and 

♦ Goethe’s  own  words.— See  “ Trip  to  lUUy,”  Goethe’s  works,  vol.  xxiii.,  p.  159. 


GOETHE  AND  MORITZ. 


321 


beautiful.  You  are  the  blessing-dispensing  Isis  of  the  Egyp- 
tians, the  Venus  Aphrodite,  and  Mother  Mary,  all  in  one,  and 
I stand  before  you  in  pious  awe,  adoring,  loving  and — ” 

“Holy  Mary!  Holy  Januarius!’'  screamed  a voice  from 
the  doorway,  and  a woman,  in  the  picturesque  dress  of  an 
Italian  peasant,  rushed  into  the  room.  “Signori,  signori, 
a wonder,  a miracle!” 

“What  do  you  mean.  Signora  Abazza?”  asked  Goethe, 
laughing,  as  Moritz,  alarmed  by  the  old  woman’s  screeching, 
withdrew  hastily  to  the  window  recess. 

“What  do  I mean?”  repeated  the  old  woman,  as  she  sank 
breathlessly  into  a chair.  “ A miracle  has  occurred.  Signori ! 
My  cat  is  praying  to  God  the  Father!” 

“How  so,  signora?”  asked  Goethe,  while  Moritz  had  aban- 
doned his  retreat  and  was  slowly  approaching  the  old  woman, 
curiosity  depicted  in  his  countenanec. 

“I  mean  just  what  I say,  signori!  I went  to  your  bed- 
chamber to  make  up  the  bed,  and  the  cat  accompanied  me  as 
usual.  Suddenly  I heard  a whining  and  mewing,  and  when 
1 looked  around,  supposing  she  had  hurt  herself  in  some  way, 
I saw  her — but  come  and  look  yourselves.  It  is  a miracle, 
signori!  A miracle!”  She  sprang  up,  rushed  to  the  door  of 
the  bedchamber,  opened  it,  looked  in,  and  beclconed  to  the 
two  friends  to  approach.  “ Softly,  softly,  signori ; do  not 
disturb  her!” 

Goethe  and  Moritz  walked  noiselessly  to  the  door,  and 
looked  into  the  adjoining  room.  There,  on  the  antiquated 
wardrobe,  opposite  Schiller’s  bed,  and  illumined  by  the  sun- 
light that  poured  in  through  the  broad  window,  stood  the 
colossal  bust  of  the  almighty  Jupiter.  In  front  of  this  bust, 
full  of  beauty  and  regal  composure,  stood  Madame  Abazza’s 
gray  cat,  upright  on  her  hind  feet.  She  had  laid  her  fore- 
paws on  the  god’s  broad  breast,  and  stretched  her  neck  so 
that  she  could  gaze  into  his  majestic  countenance,  and  touch 
with  her  tongue  the  lips  with  their  godlike  smile,  and  the 
beard  with  its  curling  locks.  She  kissed  his  divine  lips 


322 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


ardently,  and  zealously  licked  his  curly  beard,  stopping  now  and 
then  to  gaze  for  a moment  at  his  royal  countenance,  and  to 
utter  a tender,  plaintive  mew,  and  then  renewing  her  atten- 
tion to  beard  and  lips. 

Goethe  and  Moritz  looked  on  with  smiling  astonishment, 
the  old  woman  with  pious  dismay. 

“ Come  to  me,  pussy,”  cried  the  signora  at  last;  ‘‘  come  to 
me,  my  little  pet,  I will  give  you  some  milk  and  sugar; 
come!” 

But  call  and  entreat  as  she  would,  the  cat  would  not  allow 
herself  to  be  disturbed  in  her  devotions,  not  even  when 
Goethe  walked  heavily  through  the  room  and  stepped  up  to 
the  wardrobe.  She  continued  to  kiss  the  god’s  lips  and 
beard,  and  to  utter  her  plaintive  mews.  Signora  Abazza, 
who  was  standing  in  the  door- way,  with  folded  hands,  now 
protested  that  the  cat  sang  exactly  like  Father  Ambrose  when 
he  officiated  at  the  morning  mass,  and  that  her  heart,  the 
signora’s,  was  filled  with  pious  devotion. 

“I  must,  however,  bring  this  cat-mass  to  an  end,”  cried 
Goethe,  laughing,  “for  if  the  cat  continues  her  devotions 
much  longer,  another  miracle  will  take  place:  the  divine 
locks  will  dissolve,  and  the  lips,  so  expressive  of  wisdom  and 
majesty,  will  be  nothing  more  than  shapeless  plaster.  Halloo! 
father  cat,  away  with  you ! You  shall  not  transform  the  god 
into  a lump  of  plaster !”  With  threatening  tones  and  gestures 
he  frightened  the  cat  down  from  the  wardrobe,  and  drove  her 
out  of  the  room.  Goethe  and  his  friend  then  returned  to  the 
parlor. 

“Wonders  are  the  order  of  the  day,”  said  Moritz,  thought- 
fully, “ and  we  are  surrounded  by  a mysterious  atmosphere  of 
dreams  and  tokens.” 

“Only  when  we  are  dreamers,”  cried  Goethe,  laughing. 
“ To  the  unbiassed  there  is  nothing  miraculous,  to  them  all 
things  seem  natural.” 

” How  can  you  explain  the  cat’s  rapturous  devotion?” 

“In  a very  prosaic,  pitiful  manner,”  replied  Goethe,  smil- 


GOETHE  AND  MORITZ. 


323 


ing.  “Yon  know,  exalted  dreamer,  that  this  bust  was 
moulded  but  a few  days  ago,  and  you  also  know  that  grease 
was  used  to  prevent  the  plaster  from  adhering  to  the  form. 
Some  of  this  grease  remained  in  the  cavities  of  the  beard  and 
lips;  the  cat’s  fine  sense  of  smell  detected  its  presence,  and 
she  was  endavoring  to  lick  it  off.’’  * 

Philip  Moritz  raised  his  arms,  and  looked  upward  with 
comic  pathos:  “Hear  this  mocker,  this  cold-hearted  ma- 
terialist, ye  eternal,  ye  sublime  gods ! punish  the  blasphemer 
who  mocks  at  his  own  poetic  genius ; punish  him  by  filling 
his  cold  heart  with  a lost  passionate  love ! Cast  down  this 
proud  poet  in  the  dust,  in  order  that  he  be  made  aware  that 
he  is  still  a mortal  in  spite  of  his  poetic  renown,  and  that  he 
dare  not  attempt  to  hold  himself  aloof  from  human  love  and 
human  suffering ! — Venus  Aphrodite,  pour  out  the  lava  streams 
of  your  passion  on  this  presumptuous  poet,  and — 

“Hold,  hold!’*  cried  Goethe,  laughing,  as  he  seized  his 
friend’s  arms,  and  forcibly  drew  them  down.  “ You  remind 
me  of  Thetis  invoking  the  wrath  of  the  great  Zeus  upon  the 
head  of  the  son  he  believed  to  be  guilty,  and  to  whom  the  god 
granted  his  cruel  prayer.” 

“ Signori,  signori!”  cried  Signora  Abazza  from  the  outside. 

“ Come  in,  come  in,  signora ! What  is  the  matter  this  time?” 

“ Signore  Zucchi  has  arrived  from  Rome  with  his  divine 
signora,”  said  the  old  woman,  appearing  in  the  doorway, 
“ they  inquired  at  the  post-office  for  your  letters  and  papers, 
as  they  promised  to  do,  and  here  is  the  mail  Signora  Angelica 
has  brought  you.” 

Goethe  hastily  opened  and  examined  the  sealed  package 
which  she  had  handed  him.  “Newspapers!  newspapers!” 
exclaimed  he,  throwing  the  folded  papers  on  the  table.  “ I 
am  surrounded  by  living  Nature,,  what  care  I for  lifeless 
newspapers.” 

“You  will  not  read  them?”  said  Moritz.  “You  have  no 

♦This  cat  story  Goethe  relates  precisely  as  above,  in  his  “Italian  Trip.” — See 
Goethe’s  Works,  vol.  xxiii.,  p.  181. 


S24 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


desire  to  learn  what  is  taking  place  in  the  German  empire, 
to  learn  whether  the  emperor  has  undertaken  another  cam- 
paign against  presumptuous  Prussia  or  not?” 

“No,  I wish  to  know  nothing  of  war,”  said  Goethe,  softly. 
“ I am  a child  of  peace.  I wish  eternal  peace  to  the  whole 
world,  now  that  I am  at  peace  with  myself.”  * 

“ Then  permit  me,  at  least,  to  interest  myself  in  these  mat- 
ters,” said  Moritz,  taking  one  of  the  papers  from  the  table 
and  opening  it.  With  a cry  of  joy  Goethe  picked  up  the 
three  letters  that  fell  to  the  floor. 

“ Two  letters  for  me ! A letter  from  my  Charlotte,  and 
one  from  my  dear  friend.  Herder ! And  here  is  a letter  for 
you,  friend  Moritz.” 

“A  letter  for  me!”  said  Moritz,  clutching  and  hastily 
opening  the  letter  Goethe  held  in  his  extended  hand.  “ Who 
can  have  written  to  me?” 

“ Read,  my  friend,  and  you  will  see.  I will  first  read  Her- 
der’s letter,  it  probably  contains  his  opinion  of  my  ‘Bgmont,’ 
which  I sent  him  some  time  ago.” 

He  seated  himself  at  the  little  table,  opposite  Moritz. 
Both  were  soon  busily  reading,  and  Goethe  was  so  completely 
absorbed  in  his  letter  that  he  did  not  notice  how  pale  Moritz 
had  become,  and  how  the  letter  trembled  in  his  hands;  nor 
did  he  hear  the  deep  sighs  that  escaped  his  lips. 

“ I knew  these  fault-finders  would  not  understand  my 
Clarchen ; they  demand  another  scene,  explaining  her  relation 
to  Egmont.  Another  scene!  Where  am  I to  introduce  it? 
Where?” 

“ Goethe,”  said  Moritz,  rising  and  handing  the  letter,  which 
he  had  read  again  and  again,  to  his  friend,  “ Goethe,  read  this,, 
and  then  laugh  at  my  dreams  and  presentiments,  if  you  can.” 

“What  is  it?”  asked  Goethe,  looking  up.  “But  what  is 
the  matter  with  you,  my  friend?  How  pale  you  are,  and  how 
you  tremble!  Tears  in  your  eyes,  too!  Have  you  received 
bad  news?” 

* Goethe’s  own  words.— See  “Italian  Trip,”  vol.  xxiv.,  p.  146. 


GOETHE  AND  MORITZ. 


325 


•‘I  have/'  groaned  Moritz.  Marie  is  ill.  Bead!” 

Goethe  took  the  letter  and  hastily  glanced  over  it.  It  was 
from  Professor  Gedicke  in  Berlin ; he  announced  that  Marie 
Leuthen  had  been  ill  for  some  time;  that  she  had,  at  first, 
concealed  her  illness,  but  now  admitted  it,  and  expressed  an 
ardent  desire  to  see  Moritz.  The  physician  had  given  it  as 
his  opinion  that  a reunion  with  her  lover  after  so  long  a sep- 
aration would  have  a beneficial  effect  on  his  patient,  and  in- 
fuse new  life  into  her  being;  it  was  therefore  considered 
desirable  that  Moritz  should  speedily  return  to  Germany  and 
Berlin,  to  restore  health  and  happiness  to  his  beloved. 
“ Strange,  truly  strange!”  said  Goethe.  “Your  dream  is 
being  fulfilled,  your  presentiment  has  become  reality.” 

“Fearful  reality!”  groaned  Moritz.  “Marie  will  die,  I 
shall  not  see  her  again!” 

“No,  oh  no,”  said  Goethe,  endeavoring  to  console  him. 
“You  take  too  gloomy  a view  of  things;  your  fancy  conjures 
up  horrible  visions.  You  will  see  her  again.  The  magical 
infiuence  of  your  presence,  the  heavenly  fire  of  your  love,  will 
save  her.  Women  are  generally  such  sensitively  constituted 
beings  that  all  ordinary  laws  are  set  at  defiance  when  they 
love.  They  die  of  love,  and  they  live  on  love.  Marie  is  ill 
because  she  longs  to  be  with  you ; she  will  recover  when  she 
once  more  beholds  you,  and  reads  love  and  fidelity  in  your 
countenance.” 

“Marie  will  die!”  groaned  Moritz.  “God  grant  that  I 
may,  at  least,  arrive  in  time  to  kiss  the  last  death-sigh  from 
her  lips!” 

“You  are  then  about  to  take  your  departure?  You  will 
leave  Italy  and  return  to  Germany?” 

Moritz  shrugged  his  shoulders.  “ Truly,  Goethe,  in  this 
question  I see  that  your  heart  is  cold  and  loveless.  I leave 
here  within  an  hour!” 

Goethe  extended  both  hands,  and  his  eyes  shone  with  deep 
sympathy,  as  he  gazed  lovingly  into  his  friend’s  pale  coun- 
tenance. “ Moritz,  I am  not  cold  and  not  loveless.  I under- 


326 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


stand  yon.  I appreciate  yonr  grief.  I know  that  you  must 
leave  me,  and  must  answer  this  call.  Do  not  misunderstand 
me,  my  friend,  and  when  I subdue  the  holy  flames,  that  glow 
in  your  soul  and  my  own,  with  the  prose  of  every-day  life, 
remember  that  I have  eaten  much  bitter  fruit  from  the  tree 
of  knowledge,  and  that  I anxiously  avoid  being  poisoned  in 
that  manner  again.  But  a blasphemer  I am  not,  and  be  it 
far  from  me  to  desire  to  shake  your  resolution.  Love  is  the 
holy  god  who  often  determines  our  thoughts  and  actions,  and 
love  it  is  that  calls  you ! Go,  my  friend,  answer  this  call,  and 
may  love  console  and  give  you  heavenly  delight.  Go ! I will 
assist  you  in  getting  ready!  We  will  go  to  work  at  once! 
The  stage  leaves  here  for  Eome  in  a few  hours,  and  you  will 
arrive  there  in  time  to  take  the  mail-coach  for  Milan  this 
evening.” 

Goethe  assisted  his  friend  in  preparing  for  his  departure 
with  such  tender  solicitude  that  Moritz’s  eyes  filled  with  tears 
at  the  thought  of  separation  from  his  dear  companion. 

Angelica  Kaufmann,  the  celebrated  painter,  who  had  now 
been  married  to  the  artist,  Tucchi,  for  some  months,  sent 
twice  to  her  friend  Goethe  inviting  him.  to  take  a walk,  but 
in  vain.  It  was  in  vain  that  a merry  party  of  artists,  who 
were  sojourning  in  Castel  Gandolfo,  sang  beneath  Goethe’s 
window,  and  entreated  him  to  join  them  in  an  excursion  to  the 
mountains,  where  they  proposed  to  draw,  paint,  and  amuse 
themselves  till  evening. 

Goethe  let  them  go  without  him  and  remained  with  his 
friend,  endeavoring  to  console  and  encourage  him.  When 
the  trunk  was  entirely  packed,  Goethe  quietly  slipped  a well- 
filled  purse  into  the  tray,  hastily  locked  the  trunk,  and  handed 
the  key  to  Moritz.  “ All  is  now  ready,  my  friend.  Listen 
how  our  friend,  the  stage-driver,  is  cracking  his  whip  and 
giving  vent  to  his  impatience,  at  the  delay  we  have  caused,  in 
his  charming  Italian  oaths.  We  will  promise  him  a gratuity, 
as  an  incentive  to  make  him  drive  rapidly,  to  ensure  your  ar- 
riving in  Rome  in  time  for  the  mail-coach.” 


GOETHE  AND  MORITZ. 


327 


“ May  heaven  grant  that  I arrive  in  Berlin  in  time  to  find 
Marie  still  living!  this  is  all  I crave!  You  see  life  has  made 
me  humble  and  modest ; my  life  has  been  rich  in  misfortunes 
and  poor  in  joys.  I found  two  beautiful  blossoms  on  my 
journey:  Marie’s  love  and  Goethe’s  friendship.  But  I will 
lose  them  both ; death  will  tread  the  one  of  these  blossoms 
under  foot,  and  life  the  other.” 

Goethe  laid  his  hand  gently  on  Moritz’s  shoulder,  and 
gazed  into  his  countenance  in  deep  emotion.  What  fate  has 
determined  concerning  the  blossom  of  your  love,  that  we  must 
await  with  composure  and  resignation,  for  death  is  an  almighty 
king,  before  whom  the  haughtiest  head  must  bow  in  rever- 
ence. But  the  blossom  of  friendship  which  we  have  so  ten- 
derly nurtured,  and  which  has  so  often  cheered  and  refreshed 
our  hearts — that  blossom  we  will  preserve  and  protect  from 
all  the  storms  of  life.  You  may  be  right  in  asserting  that  the 
flames  of  love  are  extinguished  in  my  heart,  but  the  light  of 
friendship  is  still  burning  brightly  there,  and  will  only  expire 
with  my  death.  Be  ever  mindful  of  this,  and,  although  you 
suppose  me  to  be  a cold  lover,  you  shall  never  have  cause  to 
consider  me  a cold  friend.  Let  this  be  our  farewell;  ever 
bear  this  in  mind.” 

“This  thought  will  console  and  encourage,”  said  Moritz, 
his  eyes  filling  with  tears.  “ All  that  I have  enjoyed  in  these 
last  few  years  that  was  good  and  beautiful,  I owe  to  you,  and 
have  enjoyed  with  you  alone!  Farewell,  my  Pylades!  I feel 
that,  like  Orestes,  I am  being  pursued  by  Furies,  and  driven 
out  into  the  world,  to  death  and  to  despair!  Farewell, 
Goethe!” 

They  clasped  each  other  in  a long  embrace,  and  then  Goethe 
led  his  friend  down  to  the  stage  in  silence.  He  gave  the 
angry  driver  a gratuity,  and  pressed  his  friend’s  hand  warmly 
in  a last  farewell. 


328 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

LEONORA. 

Goethe  stood  for  a long  time  on  the  steps  in  front  of  the 
house,  following  with  his  gaze  the  departing  stage,  and  listen- 
ing to  the  jingling  of  the  little  bells  with  which  the  horses 
were  adorned.  When  this  also  had  finally  become  inaudi- 
ble, Goethe  turned  slowly,  a deep  sigh  escaping  his  lips,  and 
reentered  the  house. 

But  his  apartments  seemed  bare  and  solitary,  and  even  the 
drawings  and  paintings  which  had  usually  afforded  him  so 
much  pleasure,  were  now  distasteful. 

He  impatiently  threw  brush  and  palette  aside  and  arose. 
‘^This  solitude  is  unendurable,”  he  murmured  to  himself,  “I 
must  seek  company.  I wish  I knew  where  my  merry  friends 
have  gone,  I would  like  to  follow  them  and  take  part  in  their 
merrymakings.  But  they  will  all  have  gone,  not  one  of  them 
will  have  been  misanthropical  enough  to  remain  at  home.  I 
shall  probably  have  to  content  myself  with  the  society  of  Sig- 
nora Abazza  and  her  cat.” 

With  rapid  strides  he  passed  down  the  broad  marble  steps 
and  out  into  the  garden.  Here  all  was  still  and  solitary.  No 
human  forms  could  be  seen  in  the  long  avenues,  bordered  on 
either  side  with  dense  evergreen.  No  laughter  or  merry  con- 
versation resounded  from  the  myrtle  arbors.  In  vain  the 
wind  shook  down  the  ripe  fruit  from  the  orange  trees,  the 
merry  artists  were  not  there  who  were  in  the  habit  of  playing 
ball  with  the  golden  fruit.  In  great  dejection  Goethe  moved 
leisurely  down  the  avenue  which  led  to  the  large  pavilion, 
built  on  a little  hill  at  the  end  of  the  garden,  and  command- 
ing a magnificent  view  of  Lake  Albano  and  its  wooded  shores, 
Goethe  walked  slowly  toward  this  point,  regardless  of  his  sur- 
roundings of  the  marble  statues  that  stood  here  and  there  in 
niches  hewn  out  of  the  dense  evergreen,  and  of  the  murmur- 


LEONORA. 


329 


ing  of  the  neighboring  cascades.  The  study  of  Nature  in  all 
its  details  usually  afforded  him  great  enjoyment.  He  sought 
out  its  mysteries  as  well  in  mosses,  flowers,  and  insects,  as  in 
the  tall  cypress,  the  eagle,  and  the  clouds.  But  to-day.  Na- 
ture with  all  its  beauties  was  unheeded  by  the  poet,  he  was 
thinking  of  his  absent  friend ; the  words  of  separation  still 
resounded  in  his  ear.  His  mind  was  burdened  with  an  anxious 
feeling  like  a presentiment  of  coming  evil. 

But  Goethe  was  not  the  man  to  allow  himself  to  be  weighed 
down  by  sadness.  He  suddenly  stood  still,  threw  back  the 
brown  locks  from  his  brow  with  a violent  movement  of  the 
head,  and  looked  around  deflantly. 

“What  misery  do  you  wish  to  inflict  on  me,  hollow-eyed 
Melancholy,”  cried  he,  angrily.  “Where  do  you  lie  con- 
cealed? from  behind  which  hedge  have  you  fastened  your 
stony  gaze  on  me?  Away  with  you!  I will  have  nothing  to 
do  with  you ; you  shall  not  lay  your  cold,  damp  hand  on  my 
warm  human  heart.  I will — ” 

He  suddenly  ceased  speaking,  and  looked  up  at  the  pavilion, 
astonishment  depicted  in  his  countenance.  In  the  doorway 
of  the  pavilion,  facing  the  garden,  stood  two  girlish  figures. 
A ray  of  sunshine  penetrated  the  open  window  at  the  other 
end  of  the  hall  and  illumined  this  door- way,  surrounding  these 
figures  as  with  a frame  of  transparent  gold,  and  encircling 
their  heads  with  a halo  of  light.  The  one  was  tall  and  slen- 
der ; the  dark  complexion,  the  brown  cheeks,  slightly  tinged 
with  crimson,  the  purple  lips,  the  delicately-curved  nose,  the 
large,  sparkling  black  eyes,  the  glossy  black  hair,  and  an  in- 
expressible something  in  her  whole  appearance  and  expression, 
betrayed  the  Roman  maiden,  the  proud  daughter  of  the 
Caesars.  The  young  girl  who  stood  at  her  side  was  entirely 
different  in  appearance.  She  was  not  so  tall,  and  yet  she  was 
as  symmetrical  in  form  as  the  goddess  ascending  from  the 
waves.  Her  light  hair  fell  in  a profusion  of  ringlets  around 
the  brow  of  transparent  whiteness,  and  down  over  the  delicate 
shoulders  that  were  modestly  veiled  by  her  white  muslin  dress. 


330 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


Her  large  black  eyes  were  milder  than,  but  not  so  luminous 
as,  those  of  her  companion ; her  delicately-formed  cheeks  were 
of  a rosier  hue ; an  innocent  smile  played  about  her  purple 
lips,  and  illumined  her  whole  countenance.  Her  lovely  head 
rested  on  her  companion’s  shoulder,  and  when  she  raised  her 
right  arm  and  laid  it  around  her  neck,  the  loose  sleeve  fell 
back  and  disclosed  an  arm  of  dazzling  whiteness  and  rare 
beauty.  They  stood  there  in  silence,  surrounded  by  a halo  of 
sunshine,  looking  dreamily  around  at  the  garden  with  its 
variegated  autumnal  hues. 

At  the  foot  of  the  hill  on  which  the  pavilion  was  situated, 
stood  Goethe,  his  countenance  radiant  with  delight,  feasting 
his  eyes  on  this  charming  picture. 

“ Apollo  himself  must  have  sent  me  this  divine  picture.  I 
will  engrave  it  deeply  on  my  heart,  that  it  may  some  day  find 
utterance  in  living,  breathing  poetry.  Ye  are  the  fair  ones  of 
whom  my  soul  has  of  late  been  dreaming,  whenever  Torquato 
Tasso’s  image  arose  before  my  imagination.  I will  make  you 
both  immortal,  at  least  in  so  far  as  it  is  given  to  the  poet  to 
make  aught  immortal.  Apollo,  I thank  thee  for  this  ap- 
parition! These  are  my  two  princesses,  my  two  Leonoras, 
and  here  stands  Tasso,  looking  up  to  them  with  enraptured 
adoration!  But,  0 ye  gods,  harden  my  heart  against  the 
fiames  of  love,  preserve  me  from  Tasso’s  fate!” 

“Signor  Goethe!”  exclaimed  the  Eoman  maiden,  who  had 
just  perceived  the  poet  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  as  she 
stepped  forward  to  the  head  of  the  stone  stairway  that  led  up 
to  the  pavilion.  She  stood  there  bovfing  her  head  in  greeting, 
and  beckoning  to  him  to  come  up,  while  the  fair-haired  girl 
remained  in  the  door,  smiling  at  her  friend’s  eager  gestures. 

“ Come  up,  Signore;  mother  is  in  the  pavilion,  and  a party 
of  friends  will  soon  join  us  here;  we  shall  then  play  and  be 
merry.  ” 

“ Yes,  we  shall  play  and  be  merry,”  cried  Goethe,  as  he 
rushed  up  the  steps,  and  extended  his  hand  to  the  fair  friend 
who  awaited  him. 


LEONORA. 


331 


“ A greeting  to  yon,  beautiful  Amarilla,  and  many  thanks 
for  your  kind  invitation.  **  Signora  Amarilla  grasped  his  hand 
cordially,  and  then  turned  to  her  friend,  “ Leonora — 

“ Leonora!”  repeated  Goethe,  startled,  “ the  signora's  name 
is  Leonora?” 

Signora  Amarilla  looked  at  him  with  astonishment.  Yes, 
Leonora.  And  why  not?  Is  this  name  so  remarkable,  so 
unheard  of?” 

“ No,  not  exactly  that,  and  yet  it  is  a remarkable  coinci- 
dence that — ” 

In  her  animation,  Amarilla  took  no  notice  of  the  words 
Schiller  had  murmured,  but  ran  to  the  door,  grasped  her 
friend’s  hand,  and  led  her  forward.  The  young  girl  seemed 
to  follow  her  almost  reluctantly;  her  lovely  eyes  were  cast 
down,  and  a brighter  color  diffused  itself  over  her  cheeks. 

“ Leonora,  this  is  the  Signore  Goethe,  about  whom  I told 
you  so  much  this  morning — the  signore  who  lives  in  Rome, 
in  the  house  adjoining  ours,  on  the  Corso — the  one  to  whom 
the  artists  recently  gave  the  magnificent  serenade  that  was  the 
talk  of  all  Rome  for  three  days.  We  supposed  the  signore  to 
be  a rich  Inglese,  because  he  indulged  in  so  costly  a pleasure, 
but  he  tells  us  that  he  is  only  a poor  German  poet ; this,  how- 
ever, I do  not  believe.  But  look  up,  Leonora!  look  at  the 
gentleman ! He  is  an  intimate  acquaintance  of  mine,  and  I 
have  already  told  you  so  much  about  him.” 

While  Signora  Amarilla  was  laughing  and  speaking,  with 
the  unceasing  fluency  of  tongue  peculiar  to  the  ladies  of  Rome, 
Leonora  stood  at  her  side,  her  eyes  still  cast  down.  Goethe’s 
gaze  was  flxed  immovably  on  the  beautiful  vision  before  him. 
Did  his  ardent  gaze,  or  his  glowing  thoughts,  exercise  a magi- 
cal influence  over  her?  Slowly  she  raised  her  head,  and 
opened  the  large  timid  eyes,  shaded  with  long  black  lashes, 
and  looked  at  Goethe.  Their  glances  met,  and  both  started  ; 
the  hearts  of  both  beat  higher.  Her  cheeks  glowed,  his 
turned  pale.  He  felt  as  though  a whirlwind  had  arisen  in  his 
heart,  and  was  carrying  him  he  knew  not  where,  either 
22 


332 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


heavenward  or  into  an  abyss.  His  head  swam,  and  he  stag- 
gered back  a step;  she  grasped  her  friend’s  hand,  as  if  to  sus- 
tain herself. 

Signora  Amarilla  had  observed  nothing  of  this  mute 
greeting  and  interchange  of  thought;  she  chatted  away 
merrily. 

“ Now,  Signore  Goethe,  permit  me  to  introduce  this  young 
lady;  you  will  have  great  cause  to  be  thankful  for  the  honor 
conferred  on  you.  This  is  my  dear  friend  Signora  Leonora 
Bandetto.  Her  brother  is  the  confidential  clerk  in  the  busi- 
ness establishment  of  Mr.  Jenkins.  He  was  very  homesick, 
and  longed  to  be  with  his  family  in  Milan.  As  he  could  not 
conveniently  leave  Eome,  he  begged  that  his  sister  Leonora 
might  be  permitted  to  come  on  to  live  with  him  and  take 
charge  of  his  household.  The  most  beautiful  daughter  of 
Milan  came  to  Eome  in  answer  to  this  appeal.  I made  her 
acquaintance  at  a party  at  Mr.  Jenkins’s,  and  we  became 
friends.  We  love  each  other  tenderly,  and  I stormed  Sig- 
nore Bandetto  with  entreaties  until  he  consented  to  lend  me 
his  sister  for  a few  weeks.  Leonora  came  to  Castel  Gandolfo 
to-day,  and  will  spend  two  weeks  with  us,  two  heavenly  weeks. 
This  is  the  whole  story,  and  now  let  us  go  into  the  pavilion.” 

She  tripped  gayly  tow’ard  the  door,  leading  her  friend  by 
the  hand ; Goethe  followed  them  slowly,  his  breast  filled  with 
strange  emotions. 

At  the  entrance  they  were  received  by  Signora  Amarilla’s 
mother,  who  was  surrounded  by  a number  of  young  ladies 
who  had  just  arrived.  Several  young  gentlemen,  artists  and 
poets,  soon  joined  the  party;  the  little  pavilion  was  now  the 
scene  of  great  gayety.  Laughter  and  jesting  resounded  on 
all  sides;  and,  finally,  the  game  of  lotto,  the  favorite  game  of 
the  Eomans,  and  the  occasion  of  this  little  gathering,  was 
commenced. 

Poor  Moritz,  poor  friend,  who  is  journeying  toward  Eome 
in  sadness,  it  is  well  that  you  cannot  look  back  at  this  scene! 
It  is  well  that  you  cannot  see  the  friend  for  whom  your  heart 


LEONORA. 


333 


Is  sorrowing,  seated  between  the  two  lovely  women,  between 
Amarilla  and  Leonora,  laughing  and  jesting  with  the  former, 
but  having  eyes  and  thoughts  for  Leonora  only ! It  is  well, 
poor  Moritz,  that  you  cannot  see  Goethe’s  eyes  kindling  with 
rapture,  and  his  countenance  radiant  with  enthusiasm,  as  he 
laughs  and  jests,  the  youngest  among  the  young,  the  gayest 
among  the  gay ! 

It  is  now  Signora  Amarilla’s  turn  to  keep  the  bank. 
Goethe  is  her  partner;  he  divides  his  money  and  winnings 
with  her,  but  the  losses  he  bears  alone.  The  beautiful  Ama- 
rilla’s mother,  who  is  seated  in  front  of  them  on  the  other 
side  of  the  long  table,  looks  on  with  great  content,  laughs 
heartily  at  Signore  Goethe’s  jokes,  and  rejoices  at  the  bank’s 
success,  because  her  daughter’s  little  treasure  increases.  But 
a change  comes  over  her  countenance,  her  dark  eyes  no  longer 
sparkle  with  delight.  This  change  is  evidently  owing  to  the 
fact  that  Signore  Wolfgang  Goethe  has  dissolved  the  partner- 
ship that  existed  between  himself  and  her  daughter ; he  ten- 
dered his  services  as  partner  to  Leonora,  and  is  accepted. 
Not  being  familiar  with  the  game,  she  allows  Goethe  to  guide 
and  direct  her.  She  is  fast  losing  her  timidity,  and  is  already 
conversing  quite  gayly  and  confidentially  with  the  signore  who 
eagerly  gratifies  all  her  little  wishes. 

The  right  to  keep  the  bank  now  passed  from  Leonora  to 
her  neighbor.  Goethe,  however,  did  not  offer  to  be  her  part- 
ner too,  but  quietly  retained  his  place  between  the  two  lovely 
girls.  While  Amarilla,  with  all  the  animation  of  her  southern 
nature,  gave  her  exclusive  attention  to  the  game,  while  all 
the  players  were  anxiously  listening  to  the  numbers  as  they 
were  called  out,  and  covering  them  on  their  cards  with  little 
squares  of  glass,  Goethe  sat  leaning  back  in  his  chair,'  gazing 
into  the  beautiful  countenance  of  his  neighbor,  who  no  longer 
desired  to  take  part  in  the  game,  but  preferred  to  cease  play- 
ing, as  she  told  Goethe  naively,  rather  than  run  the  risk  of 
losing  the  two  scudi  she  had  already  won. 

‘‘Signore,  we  must  not  tempt  fortune,''  said  she,  as  she 


334 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


raised  the  little  coins,  which  amounted  to  two  scudi  in  value, 
in  her  delicate  little  hands,  and  then  let  them  fall  one  by  one 
into  her  lap.  Unconscious  of  what  she  was  doing,  she  con- 
tinued to  play  with  the  little  bajocchi  and  paoli,  raising  and 
letting  them  fall  again  and  again  into  her  lap. 

Goethe  smilingly  regarded  the  beautiful  hands  as  they 
toyed  with  the  little  coins,  and  thought  of  Correggio’s  cele- 
brated painting  of  Danae  and  the  shower  of  gold.  The 
thought  occurred  to  him : “ It  is  well  that  the  gods  no 

longer  roam  the  earth  tempting  innocence  with  such  a shower ! 
Could  this  lovely  child  also  have  been  ensnared  by  the  shower 
of  gold?” 

“You  laugh,  signore,”  said  Leonora,  looking  earnestly  at 
Goethe;  “you  laugh,  but  it  is,  nevertheless,  true!  We  must 
not  tempt  fortune ; we  are  sure  to  suffer  when  we  confide  in 
fortune.” 

“ Is  Fortuna  so  bad  a goddess?”  asked  Goethe,  smiling. 

“ Fortuna  is  no  goddess,”  replied  Leonora,  earnestly;  “ For- 
tuna is  a demon,  signore.  She  is  the  daughter  of  the  tempter 
who  spoke  to  the  mother  of  mankind  in  the  garden  of  Eden. 
If  we  listen  to  her  words  and  allow  ourselves  to  be  ensnared 
by  her  allurements,  our  good  thoughts  vanish,  and  we  are 
led  astray.” 

“ You  calumniate  the  noble  goddess,  signora.  You  are 
doubly  unjust  to  Fortuna;  has  she  not  smiled  on  you  to-day, 
and  are  not  your  thoughts  good  and  innocent?” 

“I,  myself,  am  a proof  that  she  is  a temptress,  a demon,” 
said  Leonora,  eagerly,  but  in  a subdued  voice.  “ I will  tell 
you  my  thoughts,  signore;  there  is  something  in  your  eyes 
that  compels  me  to  confess  the  truth.  Listen,  signore. 
When  I,  thanks  to  your  good  advice  and  skill,  had  won  the 
first  few  paoli,  I rejoiced  over  my  fortune  and  thought  to 
myself:  ‘I  will  give  these  to  Theresa,  the  old  woman  I see  on 
the  steps  of  the  Santa  Marie  della  Pace,  every  morning  when 
I attend  mass  at  this  church.’  Old  Theresa  invariably 
stretches  out  her  withered,  trembling  hand,  and  I am  so 


LEONORA. 


335 


rarely  able  to  give  her  any  thing,  for  my  brother  is  not  rich, 
signore,  and  we  are  compelled  to  economize  his  earnings.  It 
always  grieves  me  to  have  to  pass  by  the  poor  woman  without 
giving  her  any  thing.  I rejoiced  over  the  first  few  paoli  I 
had  won,  calculating  that  I could  have  them  changed  into 
copper  coins  and  give  Theresa  one  each  day  for  a whole  week. 
At  this  moment  you  handed  me  a few  more  paoli,  telling  me 
that  I had  already  won  an  entire  scudo.  But  what  followed ! 
Old  Theresa’s  image  vanished  from  my  heart;  it  occurred  to 
me  that  my  brother  had  recently  wished  for  a new  cravat, 
and  that  I could  now  purchase  it  with  my  scudo.  You  are 
laughing  at  me,  signore,  are  you  not?  You  are  right;  it  is 
very  bold  in  me  to  impart  my  foolish,  girlish  thoughts  to  so 
wise  a gentleman  as  yourself.'* 

“No,  signora,  I am  not  laughing  at  you,”  said  Goethe,  in 
such  tender  tones  that  she  looked  up  in  surprise  and  listened 
attentively,  as  though  his  words  were  sweet  music.  “ I was 
only  amused  because  your  own  words  rebutted  your  ac- 
cusations against  Fortuna.  The  goddess  has  awakened  good 
thoughts  only  in  your  bosom !” 

“ But  I have  not  yet  finished,  signore!  Only  wait  a little! 
My  old  beggar-woman  was  forgotten,  and  I had  determined 
to  devote  my  scudo  to  the  purchase  of  the  silk  cravat  for  my 
brother.  But  I won,  again  and  again,  and  you  poured  the  lit- 
tle paoli  into  my  hand,  and  observed  laughingly : you  are  now 
rich,  signora,  for  you  have  already  won  more  than  two  scudi! 
Your  words  startled  me ; I now  heard  a tempting  voice  whisper- 
ing in  my  breast : ‘Play  on,  Leonora;  play  on.  Win  one  more 
scudo,  and  then  you  will  have  enough  to  buy  the  coral  ear- 
rings you  recently  admired  so  much,  but  were  unable  to  buy. 
Play  on,  Leonora ; win  money  enough  to  purchase  this  jewelry.  ’ 
I was  about  to  continue  playing,  thinking  neither  of  the  old 
woman  nor  of  my  brother,  but  only  of  my  own  desires.  But 
I suddenly  remembered  the  last  words  my  confessor.  Father  Ig- 
natio,  had  spoken  to  me  in  Milan  when  I took  leave  of  him. 
He  said:  ‘My  child,  when  you  hear  the  tempter’s  voice,  pray 


33e 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


for  strength  to  resist  his  allurements;’  and  I did  pray,  sig- 
nore. While  we  were  praying,  I vowed  to  the  holy  virgin 
that  I would  not  purchase  the  jewelry,  but  would  expend  my 
scudi  for  my  brother  and  my  poor  old  Theresa  only.  I will 
keep  my  vow.  Now  you  will  admit  that  Fortuna  is  a demon, 
a daughter  of  the  temptress  who  spoke  to  our  mother  Eve, 
and  was  the  cause  of  the  expulsion  of  mankind  from  Paradise, 
will  you  not?” 

Goethe  did  not  reply ; with  an  inward  tremor  that  was  in- 
explicable to  himself,  he  gazed  at  the  lovely  being  whose 
cheeks  were  flushed  with  animation,  and  whose  countenance 
shone  with  the  holy  light  of  purity  and  innocence.  Her 
sweet  voice  still  rang  in  his  ear  after  she  had  ceased  speak- 
ing. 

“Confess,  signore!”  repeated  Leonora,  eagerly. 

Goethe  gave  her  a look  of  inflnite  mildness  and  tenderness. 
“ Signora,  you,  at  least,  are  still  in  Paradise,  and  may  the 
avenging  angel  with  the  flaming  sword  never  touch  the  pure 
brow  which  the  angel  of  innocence  has  kissed  and  sanctified.” 

“We  have  finished,  the  game  is  at  an  end!”  cried  the  im- 
perious voice  of  Amarilla’s  mother.  In  the  bustle  which 
ensued,  Leonora,  who  was  listening  breathlessly,  failed  to 
catch  the  words  which  Goethe  added  in  a low  tone. 

The  company  had  arisen  from  the  table,  and  formed  little 
groups  in  various  parts  of  the  pavilion.  Goethe  had  stepped 
to  an  open  window  and  was  looking  out  at  the  lake,  that  glit- 
tered in  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  Suddenly  a hand 
was  laid  heavily  on  his  shoulder ; he  slowly  turned  and  saw 
Signora  Frezzi,  Amarilla’s  mother,  standing  at  his  side.  Her 
countenance  was  grave,  her  brow  clouded,  and  the  accustomed 
smile  was  wanting  on  her  lips. 

“ Signore  Goethe,  you  are  a stranger,  and  are,  of  course, 
not  familiar  with  the  usages  of  our  favored  land,”  said  she,  in 
subdued,  reproachful  tones. 

“ Have  I sinned,  signora?”  asked  he,  gayly.  “ Have  I been 
guilty  of  an  imj:)ropriety?” 


LEONORA. 


337 


‘‘  Yes,  signore,  you  have,  and  as  Amarilla’s  mother,  I must 
say  that  I cannot  suffer  the  innocent  child  to  be  affronted.” 

“But,  signora,”  he  asked,  in  alarm,  “how  can  I have 
affronted  your  daughter?” 

“ I will  tell  you,  signore.  You  have  known  my  daughter 
since  your  concert  in  Rome,  cind,  when  we  met  here  in  Castel 
Gandolfo  a week  ago,  you  showed  a disposition  to  cultivate 
her  acquaintance.  Since  then  you  have  been  her  companion 
on  all  our  walks  and  excursions.  It  is  recognized  as  your 
right  by  all  our  friends  and  acquaintances,  and  no  one  would 
dream  of  attempting  to  take  your  place  at  her  side.  It  is  a 
good  old  custom  for  each  young  lady  and  gentleman  to  select 
a special  friend  during  their  summer  sojourn  in  the  country. 
It  binds  the  young  lady  and  gentleman  who  have  associated 
themselves  in  this  manner,  to  the  most  enduring  and  delicate 
attentions  to  each  other  until  they  return  to  Rome,  when,  of 
course,  all  obligation  ceases.” 

“ What  impropriety  have  I committed?” 

“ This  impropriety,  signore : for  the  last  week  you  have 
been  recognized  by  every  one  as  the  amico  of  my  daughter, 
and  now,  when  you  have  scarcely  made  the  acquaintance  of 
her  friend  Leonora,  you  transfer  the  attentions  hitherto  shown 
to  my  daughter  to  this  young  lady.  This  is  not  proper,  sig- 
nore, and  I must  request  you — ” 

“I  have  a request  to  make  of  you  first,  signora,”  said 
Goethe,  interrupting  her  in  severe  and  imperious  tones.  “ I 
must  request  you  not  to  forget  that  I am  a stranger,  and  can- 
not give  up  the  customs  and  usages  of  my  own  country.  In 
Germany  it  is  c stomary  for  gentlemen  to  be  polite  to  all  ladies. 
This,  it  seems  to  me,  is  better  and  more  agreeable  than  to 
show  exclusive  attention  and  devotion  to  one  lady  to  the 
neglect  of  all  others.  You  will  have  to  permit  me  to  pursue 
the  course  I deem  the  most  proper.” 

He  left  her  side,  and  walked  through  the  pavilion  to  the 
bay-window  in  which  the  two  young  ladies  were  standing. 
They  both  smiled  as  he  approached.  Amarilla  had  just 


338 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


broken  off  a twig  of  blooming  myrtle  from  the  vine  that  clung 
to  the  lattice-work  of  the  pavilion,  and  was  fastening  it  in 
Leonora’s  hair.  She  pointed  proudly  to  her  friend : 

“ See  how  beautiful  she  is,  signore ! Does  she  not  look  like 
the  goddess  of  love  with  the  flowers  of  love  in  her  hair?” 

Leonora  blushed  and  turned  her  head  hastily  toward  the 
open  window.  Th  myrtle  fell  from  her  hair  to  the  floor,  at 
Goethe’s  feet.  He  stooped  down  and  picked  it  up.  His 
heart  beat  tumultuously,  and  a feeling  of  wondrous  delight 
ran  through  his  whole  being  as  he  handed  it  to  Amarilla  to 
be  replaced  in  Leonora’s  hair. 

“ How  long  will  it  be,”  said  Amarilla,  smiling,  as  she  again 
fastened  the  myrtle  in  her  friend’s  hair;  “ how  long  will  it  be 
before  I adorn  this  golden  hair  with  a real  bridal  wreath!” 

She  looked  smilingly  at  Goethe  as  she  uttered  these  words, 
and  this  look  made  his  heart  quake.  How  composed  this 
heart  had  hitherto  been  since  his  sojourn  in  Italy!  How 
carefully  had  Goethe  avoided  awakening  it  from  this  state  of 
dreamy  repose!  How  sedulously  had  he  avoided  women,  liv- 
ing only  for  art  and  nature!  Now,  when  he  hardly  knew 
that  he  had  a heart,  it  suddenly  beat  tumultuously,  and  fllled 
his  breast  with  all  the  sweet  sensations  and  stormy  desires  of 
former  days! 

He  was  so  astonished  and  bewildered  by  this  revelation,  that 
he  was  unable  to  take  part  in  the  conversation  going  on 
around  him,  or  to  appear  indifferent  to  this  charming  girl. 
He  left  the  pavilion  and  sought  out  the  most  solitary  part  of 
the  park,  where  he  walked  to  and  fro  for  hours,  listening  to 
the  sweet  voices  that  were  whispering  in  his  soul.  He  smiled 
when  he  remembered  how  Moritz  had  entreated  the  gods  to 
melt  his  icy  heart;  his  friend’s  wish  was  being  gratified  in  a 
charming  manner! 

“ I thank  you,  ye  eternal  gods,  for  having  accorded  me  this 
highest  revelation  of  poetry  here  in  Italy;  I thank  you  for 
having  enkindled  in  my  heart  tlie  holy  flames  of  love.  I 
laughed  at  you,  Venus  Aphrodite,  and  you  are  punishing  the 


LEONORA. 


339 


sinner  with  your  sweetest  wrath ; you  are  permitting  him  to 
feel  that  undying  youth  is  still  glowing  in  his  bosom.  For 
love  is  eternal  youth,  and  I love!  Yes,  I love!” 

It  was  late  at  night,  and  his  friends  had  long  since  retired 
to  rest,  but  Goethe  was  still  walking  to  and  fro  in  the  gloomy 
avenues  of  the  park — in  the  avenues  in  which  the  pious 
fathers  of  the  order  of  the  holy  Ignatius  had  formerly  wan- 
dered, forming  plans  to  divert  the  power  and  glory  of  the 
whole  world  into  their  hands. 

The  palace  that  now  belonged  to  the  wealthy  Mr.  Jenkins 
had  formerly  been  the  summer  residence  of  the  general  of 
this  order.  The  monastery  was  situated  at  the  other  end  of 
the  park.  Pope  Urban  had  once  walked  arm  in  arm  with  his 
friend  the  Jesuit  general  in  these  avenues,  and  together  they 
had  considered  how  they  were  to  subjugate  princes  and 
nations,  and  make  themselves  masters  of  the  world. 

Goethe  thought  of  this  as  he  stepped  into  the  main  avenue, 
and  saw  before  him  the  grand  old  palace. 

“ Truly,”  murmured  he,  “this  is  the  work  of  the  holy 
fathers.  They  have  thrown  a Jesuit’s  cloak  over  the  mis- 
chievous god.  In  this  disguise,  he  has  dogged  my  footsteps, 
and,  while  I fondly  believed  myself  to  be  conversing  with  an 
honest  priest  on  learned  topics,  this  impudent  knave  has  so  be- 
witched me  that  I have  abjured  all  wisdom,  and  am  about  to 
become  a fool  among  fools.” 

“ But  what  is  to  come  of  this,  you  fool?”  asked  he  of  him- 
self. “ Where  is  your  love  for  this  beautiful  child  to  lead 
you?” 

He  listened,  as  if  expecting  an  answer  from  the  night  wind 
that  rustled  by.  He  looked  up  at  the  moon,  to  see  if  a so- 
lution of  this  mystery  of  the  future  could  be  found  in  its 
shining  countenance.  In  his  heart  the  mocking  words  of  his 
own  song  were  all  the  while  ringing,  singing,  and  laughing 
in  low  tones : 

“ Heirathen,  Kind,  ist  wonderlich  Wort, 

Hör’  ich’s,  möcht  ich  gleich  wieder  fortl  ” * 

* When  marriage  is  spoken  of,  my  child,  I feel  like  leaving  at  once. 


340 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


He  repeated  these  words  again  and  again,  as  he  slowly 
walked  toward  the  house,  endeavoring  to  convince  himself 
that  they  embodied  his  own  sentiments.  But  the  moonbeams 
are  strange  sorcerers ; over  the  glittering  waters  of  the  mur- 
muring cascades,  and  in  every  open  myrtle-blossom,  he  saw 
the  countenance  of  a lovely  girl,  who  seemed  to  greet  him 
with  her  dark,  starlike  eyes,  and  whose  golden  hair  encom- 
passed her  angel  countenance  as  with  a halo  of  beauty  and 
innocence. 

Goethe  smiled,  and  whispered  the  following  lines  of  the 
same  song : 

“ Heirathen  wir  eben, 

Das  übrige  wird  sich  geben  1 * 


CHAPTER  X. 

A DREAM  OF  LOYE. 

Strong  and  mighty,  harnessed,  and  full  of  life,  as  Minerva 
had  sprung  forth  from  the  head  of  Jupiter,  had  love  suddenly 
arisen  in  Goethe’s  heart.  A single  day  had  awakened  it,  a 
single  night  had  sufficed  to  make  it  strong,  mighty,  and  con- 
fident of  victory. 

When  Goethe,  after  having  passed  a night  of  delightful 
dreams,  left  his  apartments  on  the  following  morning,  and 
repaired  to  the  large  saloon  in  which  the  Jesuit  general  had 
formerly  entertained  his  devout  guests,  and  in  which  merry 
artists  and  men  of  the  world,  and  joyous  and  beautiful  women, 
were  now  in  the  habit  of  assembling,  his  countenance  wore  a 
glad  smile.  He  had  bravely  resolved  to  permit  himself  to  be 
borne  onward  on  the  seething,  silver  waves  of  feeling,  regard- 
less of  whither  they  tended — satisfied  that  they  would  bear 
him  to  some  one  of  the  enchanted  isles  of  bliss,  on  the  fragrant 
shores  of  which  two  white  arms  would  embrace  him,  and  two 


* Let  us  only  marry,  the  rest  will  take  care  of  itself. 


A DREAM  OF  LOVE. 


341 


radiant  eyes  would  whisper  wondrous  music  in  his  listening 
heart. 

He  was  alone  in  the  large  room.  The  artists  had  returned 
at  a late  hour  from  their  excursion  of  the  previous  day,  and 
had  not  yet  left  their  apartments.  Angelica  Kaufmann,  who, 
with  her  husband,  the  old  painter  Zucchi,  was  always  the 
first  to  take  her  seat  at  the  breakfast-table,  had  to-day  sent 
down  word  that  she  was  tormented  with  headache,  and  would 
breakfast  in  her  apartments.  Signora  Frezzi  avoided  the 
parlor,  because  she  did  not  desire  to  meet  Goethe,  whose 
abrupt  behavior  of  the  day  before  had  offended  her. 

The  newspapers  that  had  arrived  yesterday  were  lying 
around  on  the  little  tables.  Goethe  seated  himself  at  one  of 
these  tables,  and  opened  one  of  the  large  English  papers 
which  are  so  great  a solace  to  the  blue-eyed  daughters  of 
Albion. 

Two  joyous,  girlish  voices  interrupted  his  reading,  causing 
him  to  throw  his  paper  hastily  aside,  and  sending  the  hot 
blood  to  his  cheeks. 

The  voices  were  those  of  Amarilla  and  Leonora,  who  had 
come  from  the  park,  and  now  entered  the  parlor.  They  were 
attired  in  simple  morning  dresses,  and  looked  charming  with 
their  fresh,  rosy  cheeks,  and  the  blossoming  sprigs  of  pome- 
granate in  their  waving  hair. 

Amarilla’s  quick,  roving  eye  detected  Goethe  first,  and  she 
uttered  a joyous  greeting  as  she  hurried  forward  with  ex- 
tended hands. 

Leonora  stood  at  a distance,  but  her  smiling  lips  and  the 
timid  glance  of  her  large  eyes  were  more  eloquent  than  Ama- 
rilla’s words  could  possibly  be. 

He  stepped  forward  and  extended  his  hand  to  Leonora,  and, 
when  she  laid  her  little  hand  in  his,  timidly,  and  yet  with 
an  expression  of  childlike  confidence,  his  soul  exulted,  his 
heart  overfiowed  with  joy,  and  his  countenance  beamed  with 
delight. 

Amarilla  did  not  observe  this,  as  she  was  busily  engaged  in 


342 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


pouring  out  the  coffee  at  one  of  the  tables.  Leonora  turned 
pale  under  Goethe’s  glances,  blushed,  and  then  turned  pale 
again,  and  withdrew  her  hand  with  a quick,  convulsive  move- 
ment. She  slowly  raised  her  eyes,  and  looked  at  Goethe  so 
reproachfully,  so  anxiously,  that  a tremor  of  joy  and  emotion 
ran  through  his  whole  being. 

“ Be  firm,  my  heart,  do  not  yield  so  soon  to  this  sweet  en- 
chantment ! First  inhale  the  fragrance  of  this  purple  blos- 
som which  we  call  love,  before  you  pluck  it  and  press  it  to 
your  heart.  Be  firm,  and  enjoy  the  pure  delight  of  the  dawn- 
ing sunlight!’* 

She  glided  slowly  from  his  side,  and  now,  when  she  stood 
at  the  table  assisting  Amarilla,  her  anxious  look  vanished; 
the  timid  little  dove  felt  safe  under  the  protecting  wing  of 
the  older  and  stronger  dove ; she  had  instinctively  heard  the 
rustle  of  the  falcon’s  wings,  but  now  that  she  was  at  the  side 
of  her  sister  dove  she  no  longer  feared. 

Leonora  smiled  again,  took  part  in  the  merry  conversation 
which  Amarilla  had  begun  with  Signore  Wolfgang,  and  seated 
herself  at  his  side  at  the  breakfast-table,  which  Amarilla  had 
arranged  for  the  three.  It  was  a beautiful  morning;  the 
fresh  breeze  wafted  clouds  of  fragrance  into  the  room  through 
the  broad,  open  glass  doors;  the  rustling  of  the  orange  and 
myrtle  trees,  and  the  murmuring  and  plashing  of  the  cas- 
cades, greeted  the  ear  like  soft  music. 

To  Goethe,  the  two  lovely  girls  between  whom  he  sat  seemed 
as  bright  and  fair  as  the  morning.  Their  ingenuous  conver- 
sation seemed  to  him  more  charming  and  instructive  than 
any  conversation  he  had  ever  had  with  the  most  intellectual 
women,  or  the  greatest  scholars  on  the  most  profound  subjects. 

Ilis  attention  was,  however,  chiefiy  directed  to  the  fair 
daughter  of  Milan,  the  maiden  with  the  light  hair,  dark  eyes, 
and  the  delicate,  transparent  cheeks — the  maiden,  whose 
countenance  was  but  the  mirror  of  her  soul,  the  mirror  in 
which  her  every  thouglit  and  impulse  was  reflected. 

Amarilla  had  taken  one  of  the  English  newspapers,  had 


A DREAM  OF  LOVE. 


343 


folded  it  into  a cap  in  imitation  of  the  fazzoletta  of  the  Al- 
banian peasant-women,  and  placed  it  jauntily  on  her  pretty 
head.  She  was  dancing  around  in  the  room,  and  singing  in 
a low  voice  to  the  melody  of  the  tarantella,  one  of  those  little 
love-ditties  which  gush  so  harmoniously  from  the  lips  of 
Italian  maidens. 

“ She  flies  about  like  the  bee,  sipping  sweets  from  every 
blossom,  and  fancies  the  world  a vast  flower-garden,  created 
only  for  her  delight.” 

^^Are  you  of  that  opinion,  beautiful  Leonora?”  asked 
Goethe,  with  a tender  glance. 

She  shook  her  head  slowly.  ‘‘  No,”  said  she;  I know  that 
both  the  bee  and  the  flower  are  of  but  little  importance  in  the 
great  economy  of  the  universe.  I often  think,”  she  contin- 
ued, in  a low  voice,  and  with  a charmingly  thoughtful  air,  “ I 
often  think  that  we  poor,  simple  girls  are  nothing  more  in 
the  sight  of  God  than  the  bee  and  flower,  and  that  it  is  im- 
material whether  we  live  or  die.” 

You  have  too  poor  an  opinion  of  yourselves,”  said  Goethe, 
in  low  and  impassioned  tones.  “ You  do  not  know  that  the 
Almighty  sometimes  takes  pity  on  men,  and  sends  an  angel 
of  innocence,  grace,  and  beauty,  to  console  the  human  soul 
and  refresh  the  human  heart.  You  do  not  know  that  you  are 
such  an  angel  to  me!” 

She  shook  her  lovely  little  head  dissentingly.  I only 
know,  signore,  that  I am  a poor  ignorant  girl,  and  that  I 
often  long  to  cast  off  my  stupidity,  and  be  able  to  understand 
what  wise  men  say.  It  is,  however,  not  altogether  my  own 
fault  that  I am  so  stupid,  that — ” 

“You  are  unjust  to  yourself,”  cried  Goethe,  interrupting 
her ; “ you  should  not  confound  the  divine  ignorance  of  inno- 
cence with  stupidity.” 

“I  speak  the  truth  only,”  rejoined  Leonora;  “and  you  see 
that  I am  attempting  to  excuse  myself  by  telling  you  that  it 
^0  not  wholly  our  own  fault  that  we  are  so  foolish  and  ignorant, 
öur  parents  and  instructors,  in  their  anxiety  for  our  welfare, 


344 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


fear  to  open  our  eyes,  believing  it  best  that  a girl  should  learn 
and  know  nothing.  They  do  not  teach  us  to  write,  because 
they  fear  that  we  would  do  nothing  but  write  love-letters;  nor 
would  they  teach  us  to  read,  if  it  were  not  to  enable  us  to  use 
our  prayer-books.  We  are  scarcely  taught  to  express  ourselves 
well  in  our  own  language;  and  it  occurs  to  none  to  have  us 
instructed  in  foreign  languages,  and  give  us  access  to  the 
books  of  the  world.’’  * 

“ Would  you  like  to  be  able  to  read  in  these  books  of  the 
world,  Leonora?” 

I would  give  all  I possess  to  learn  English ! Whenever  I 
hear  Mr.  Jenkins  and  my  brother,  or  Madame  Zucchi  and  her 
husband,  conversing  in  English,  it  makes  me  feel  sad,  and  a 
feeling  of  envy  comes  over  me  that  I never  experience  at  other 
times.  See,  Signore,  Amarilla  has  made  a fazzoletta  from  one 
of  these  large  English  papers,  and  is  skipping  around  with  it 
on  her  head,  while  I — I would  give  every  thing  to  be  able  to 
read  and  understand  what  is  written  in  the  papers,  which  I 
know  bring  us  intelligence  from  the  whole  world.” 

“ You  say  you  would  give  every  thing  to  be  able  to  read 
these  papers?  What  will  you  give  me  if  I teach  you  how  to 
do  so?” 

‘‘Do  teach  me,”  she  cried,  clapping  her  little  hands  joy- 
fully; “oh,  do  teach  me!  I will  be  so  thankful,  so  very 
thankful!  You  will  make  me  so  happy,  and  I know  that  you 
are  noble  and  generous,  and  will  find  your  best  reward  in  hav- 
ing made  a poor  ignorant  girl  happy.” 

“Do  you,  then,  really  believe  me  to  be  so  disinterested, 
signora?”  asked  Goethe,  gazing  earnestly  into  her  animated 
countenance.  “ No,  Leonora,  you  are  mistaken  in  me!  I 
am  not  so  godlike  as  you  suppose!” 

At  this  moment  the  ringing  tones  of  Amarilla’s  voice  were 
wafted  in  from  the  terrace.  She  was  singing  to  the  charming 
air  so  well  known  to  every  Italian  maiden  and  youth,  and  so 
familiar  even  to  the  orange  groves  and  flowers,  because  they 

♦ Leonora’s  own  words.— See  Goethe’s  Works,  vol.  xxiv.,  p.  186. 


A DREAM  OF  LOVE. 


345 


have  so  often  heard  it  resounding  from  the  cooing,  exulting 
lips  of  lovers : 

“ lo  ti  voglio  ben’  assai 
Ma  tu  non  pens’  a me  I ” 

Alarmed  by  the  impassioned  tones  of  Goethe’s  voice, 
Leonora  turned  her  head  quickly  toward  the  terrace.  She 
smiled  when  she  saw  Amarilla  skipping  about  from  tree  to 
tree,  singing  like  a humming-bird,  as  she  plucked  a blossom 
or  a sprig  here  and  there,  and  arranged  them  into  a bouquet. 

“ See,  signore,”  whispered  Leonora  as  she  raised  her  delicate 
little  hand  and  pointed  to  her  friend.  “ I told  you  before 
that  we  were  not  taught  how  to  write,  for  fear  that  we  would 
write  love-letters.  See  what  we  poor  ignorant  girls  resort  to 
when  we  wish  to  write  a love-letter.  Instead  of  using  the  let- 
ters of  the  alphabet  we  take  flowers,  that  is  the  whole 
difference.” 

“ Do  you  mean  to  say  that  Amarilla  is  writing  a love-letter 
with  her  flowers?” 

Be  still,  do  not  betray  her,  signore.  Look  down,  that  no 
profane  glance  may  desecrate  the  letters  which  God  and  the 
sun  have  created!” 

‘‘  But  I may  look  at  that  young  man  who  is  stealing  out 
from  behind  the  evergreen-hedge,  may  I not?” 

“ Of  what  young  man  are  you  speaking?”  asked  Leonora, 
in  alarm. 

“ Of  the  young  Comaccini,  who  is  cautiously  peering  through 
those  bushes,  and  for  whom  the  fragrant  love-letter,  which 
Amarilla  holds  aloft  so  triumphantly,  is  probably  intended.” 

“No,  do  not  look  that  way,  signore,”  cried  Leonora,  with 
an  air  of  confusion,  as  she  hastily  took  one  of  the  papers  from 
the  table  and  handed  it  to  Goethe. 

“You  said  you  would  teach  me  to  read  these  papers,  to 
make  out  these  difficult  English  words.  Please  do  so,  sig- 
nore. I will  be  a very  thankful  scholar!” 

Goethe  smiled  as  he  took  the  paper  and  unfolded  it.  He 
had  laid  his  left  arm  on  the  back  of  the  chair,  in  which  Leo- 


346 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


nora  sat;  with  his  right  hand  he  held  the  paper  before  her 
lovely  countenance.  He  began  to  read  and  translate,  word 
for  word,  the  passage  at  which  her  rosy  finger  pointed.  She 
listened  with  breathless  attention,  utterly  unconscious  that 
their  heads  were  side  by  side,  that  her  cheeks  almost  touched 
his,  and  that  her  fair,  fragrant  hair  was  intermingled  with 
his  brown  locks.  Her  whole  soul  was  filled  with  the  deter- 
mination to  impress  each  word  that  Goethe  uttered  indelibly 
on  her  mind.  Her  glances  fiew  like  busy  bees  from  the  paper 
to  his  lips,  unconscious  that  they  bore  a sting  which  was  in- 
fusing sweet  poison  into  the  heart  of  her  zealous  teacher. 

To  be  the  teacher  of  a beautiful  young  girl  is  a dangerous 
office  for  a man  who  is  young,  and  impetuous,  and  whose 
heart  is  not  preoccupied.  To  read  out  of  one  book,  cheek  by 
jowl,  so  near  to  each  other  that  the  breath  of  his  lips  is  min- 
gled with  hers,  and  that  he  can  hear  her  heart’s  quick 
throbs — when  has  a woman  done  this  with  impunity,  unless  it 
was  her  lover  or  her  husband  with  whom  she  was  reading! 
Francesca  da  Rimini  would  not  have  been  murdered  by  her 
jealous  husband,  if  she  had  not  read  Launcelot  with  her  hand- 
some brother-in-law  Paolo  Malatesta. 

“ One  day  we  were  reading  for  our  delight, 

Of  Launcelot,  how  love  did  him  enthrall; 

Alone  we  were  and  without  any  fear, 

Full  many  a time  our  eyes  together  drew, 

That  reading,  and  drove  the  color  from  our  faces; 

But  one  point  only  was  it  that  overcame  us. 

When  as  we  read  of  the  much  longed-for  smile. 

Being  by  such  a noble  lover  kissed. 

This  one,  who  ne’er  from  me  shall  be  divided, 

Kissed  me  upon  the  mouth  all  palpitating. 

Galeotto  was  the  book  and  he  who  wrote  it. 

That  day  no  further  did  we  read  therein.”  * 

They  too  were  reading  for  their  delight,  and  were  alone 
without  any  fear. 

Amarilla  sang  and  danced  about  on  the  terrace,  and  paid 
no  attention  to  the  two  who  were  sitting  so  close  together  and 
studying  the  Englisli  newspaper  so  earnestly.  The  passage  at 

* Dante  Alighiere’s  Divine  Comedy,  canto  v.— Translated  by  H.  W.  Longfellow. 


A DREAM  OF  LOVE. 


347 


which  Leonora  pointed,  chanced  to  be  the  simple,  touching 
history  of  a young  man  and  a girl  who  loved  each  other  de- 
votedly, but  could  not  be  united  because  the  man  was  already 
married.  The  girl,  unable  to  conquer  her  love,  and  yet  tor- 
mented with  remorse  and  anguish,  had  buried  her  love  and 
her  sorrows  in  the  dark  waters  of  the  Thames.  Her  lover 
poisoned  himself  when  he  learned  the  sad  intelligence,  leaving 
a letter,  in  which  he  begged  that  they  might  be  permitted  to 
rest  in  one  grave. 

Leonora’s  attention  was  so  entirely  absorbed  in  the  trans- 
lation of  the  separate  words  that  the  meaning  of  what  they 
were  reading  escaped  her.  In  breathless  excitement  she  lis- 
tened to  the  words  of  glowing  passion  that  fell  from  her 
teacher’s  lips,  and  stored  them  away  in  her  memory,  as  newly- 
acquired  precious  treasures.  She  cried  out  with  delight, 
when,  after  they  had  translated  the  passage  for  the  second 
time,  she  succeeded  in  comprehending  its  meaning,  and  could 
render  whole  sentences  and  periods  in  her  own  language.  She 
was  so  beautiful  in  her  innocent  joy,  her  countenance  was  so 
animated,  her  eyes  so  radiant,  the  smile  on  her  lips  was  so 
charming,  that  a tremor  of  delight  ran  through  Goethe’s 
being  as  he  gazed  at  the  fair  creature.  He  said  to  himself 
that  it  must  be  enchanting  to  open  the  treasures  of  knowledge 
to  this  charming  child  of  Nature,  and  to  learn  from  her  while 
giving  her  instruction. 

They  were  still  absorbed  in  the  English  lesson,  and  did  not 
observe  that  the  door  was  noiselessly  opened,  and  that  a young 
man  with  a merry  countenance  and  bright  smile  appeared  on 
the  threshold.  But,  when  he  saw  the  two,  seated  side  by  side, 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  cheek  to  cheek,  she  gazing  fixedly  at 
the  paper,  he  regarding  her  with  an  expression  of  passionate 
tenderness — when  the  young  man  saw  this,  his  merry  expres- 
sion vanished,  and  he  cast  a look  of  anger  and  hatred  to- 
wards the  readers.  Leonora  had  just  succeeded  in  translating 
the  whole  narrative,  unassisted  by  her  teacher,  and  now  uttered 
the  concluding  words  in  a loud  voice:  “They  found  it 
23 


348 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


sweeter  to  die  in  love  than  to  live  without  love!”  The  pale 
young  man  with  the  angry  countenance  slowly  withdrew, 
closing  the  door  as  noiselessly  as  he  had  before  opened  it. 
They  observed  nothing  of  this,  and  continued  reading  until  a 
number  of  their  friends  and  acquaintances  entered  the  room, 
when  they  laid  the  paper  aside,  with  a sigh  and  a mutual  look 
of  regret  and  tenderness. 

The  servants  now  appeared  and  were  soon  hastily  engaged 
in  preparing  the  breakfast  table  for  the  numerous  guests  who 
were  sojourning  in  the  house.  Angelica  Kaufmann,  who  had 
just  entered  the  room  on  Mr.  Jenkins’s  arm,  stepped  forward 
and  greeted  Goethe,  cordially,  mildly  reproaching  him  with 
having  neglected  and  forgotten  her. 

Goethe  replied  to  this  reproach,  but  not  in  his  usual  gay 
and  unrestrained  manner,  and  her  keen  glance  detected  a 
change  in  his  countenance. 

One  of  the  muses  or  goddesses  of  Olympus  has  paid  you  a 
visit  this  morning,”  said  she.  “Her  kiss  is  still  burning  on 
your  cheeks,  and  the  heavenly  fire  is  still  flaming  in  your  eyes. 
Tell  me,  my  friend,  which  muse  or  which  goddess  was  it  that 
kissed  you?” 

“Why  must  it  have  been  an  immortal  woman,  Angelica?” 
asked  Goethe,  laughing. 

“Because  no  mortal  woman  can  touch  your  hard  heart. 
You  know  your  friend  Moritz  always  called  you  the  polar  bear, 
and  maintained  that  you  had  an  iceberg  in  your  breast  instead 
of  a heart.  He  was  right,  was  he  not?” 

“Woe  is  me,  if  he  was  not,  but  is  to  be!”  sighed  Goethe, 
thinking  of  the  dire  visitation  Moritz  had  called  down  upon 
his  head. 

Breakfast  was  announced,  and  the  guests  began  to  seat 
themselves  at  the  table.  The  place  of  honor  was  generally 
conceded  to  be  at  Goethe’s  side,  Mr.  Jenkins  therefore  re- 
quested Angelica  Kaufmann  to  take  the  seat  on  Goethe’s 
right  hand.  While  he  was  looking  around,  considering  to 
whom  he  should  accord  the  second  place  of  honor  on  Goethe’s 


A DREAM  OF  LOVE. 


349 


left,  Leonora  stepped  forward  and  quietly  seated  herself  in 
the  coveted  place  at  her  instructor’s  side. 

“I  cannot  separate  myself  from  you,  maestro,’'  said  she, 
smiling.  “ You  must  repeat,  and  explain  to  me,  a few  words 
of  our  lesson.  Only  think,  I have  already  forgotten  the  sen- 
tence which  commences:  ‘Sweet  it  is  to  die  in  love.’  ” 

Angelica’s  astonished  look  convinced  Goethe  that  she  had 
heard  these  words,  and  this  confused  him.  His  embarrassed 
manner,  when  he  replied  to  Leonora,  betrayed  to  Angelica 
the  mystery  of  his  sudden  change  of  color  when  she  had  first 
spoken  to  him  on  entering  the  room.  “ I was  mistaken,”  said 
she,  in  a low  voice,  and  with  her  soft  smile,  “ it  was  not  a 
goddess  or  a muse  who  visited  you.  The  god  of  gods  himself 
has  kissed  your  heart  and  opened  your  eyes  that  you  might 
see.” 

Yes,  these  fiaming  eyes  did  see,  and  love  had  softened  the 
poet’s  hard  heart  with  kisses.  His  soul  was  filled  with 
rapture  as  in  the  days  of  his  first  boyish  love ; every  thing 
seemed  changed — seemed  to  have  become  brighter  and  fairer. 
When  he  walked  in  the  park  with  his  friends  after  breakfast 
it  seemed  to  him  that  his  feet  no  longer  touched  the  earth, 
but  that  his  head  pierced  the  heavens,  and  that  he  beheld  the 
splendor  of  the  sun  and  the  lustre  of  the  stars.  He  had  gone 
to  the  pavilion,  where  he  had  first  seen  Leonora,  hoping  to 
find  her  there  now.  Amarilla  had  drawn  her  aside,  after 
breakfast,  and  whispered  a few  words  in  her  ear.  Goethe  had 
seen  her  shudder,  turn  pale,  and  reluctantly  follow  her  friend 
from  the  room.  He  hoped  to  find  her  in  the  pavilion.  She 
was,  however,  not  there ; a few  groups  of  ladies  and  gentle- 
men were  standing  at  the  open  windows,  looking  at  the  beau- 
tiful landscape. 

Goethe  stepped  up  to  one  of  these  windows  and  gazed  out 
at  the  lovely  lake  with  its  rippling  waves  and  wooded  banks. 
It  had  never  before  looked  so  beautiful.  He  did  not  view 
this  picture  with  the  eye  of  an  artist,  who  desires  to  reproduce 
what  he  sees  in  oil  or  aquarelle,  but  with  the  eye  of  an  enrap- 


350 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


tured  mortal,  before  whom  a new  world  is  suddenly  un- 
folded, a world  of  beauty  and  of  love.* 

Suddenly  he  heard  Amarilla’s  merry,  laughing  voice,  and 
his  heart  told  him  that  she  also  was  near — she,  the  adored 
Leonora!  Goethe  turned  towards  the  entrance.  Yes,  there 
was  Leonora;  there  she  stood  on  the  threshold,  at  her  side  a 
young  man,  with  whom  she  was  conversing  in  low  and  eager 
tones. 

“Here  you  are.  Signore  Goethe,*'  cried  Amarilla,  stepping 
forward.  “We  have  been  looking  for  you  everywhere,  we — " 

“ Signore,"  said  Goethe,  interrupting  her,  and  laying  his 
hand  gently  on  her  arm,  “ pray  tell  me  who  that  young  man 
is  with  whom  your  friend  Leonora  is  so  eagerly  conversing?" 

“We  have  been  looking  for  you  to  tell  you  this,  and  to 
make  you  acquainted  with  young  Matteo.  He  has  come  to 
tell  Leonora  that  the  rich  old  uncle  whose  only  heir  he  is,  has 
suddenly  died,  and  that  no  impediment  to  his  marriage  now 
exists." 

“ What  does  it  concern  your  friend  whether  this  Mr. 
Matteo  has  grown  rich,  and  can  now  marry  or  not?" 

“What  does  it  concern  her?"  said  Amarilla,  laughing. 
“ Well,  I should  think  it  concerned  her  a great  deal,  as  she  is 
betrothed  to  this  Mr.  Matteo,  and  their  marriage  is  to  take 
place  in  a week." 

Not  a muscle  of  his  face  quivered,  not  a look  betrayed  his 
anguish.  He  turned  to  the  window,  and  stared  out  at  the 
landscape  which  had  before  shone  so  lustrously  in  the  bright 
sunlight.  How  changed ! All  was  now  night  and  darkness; 
a film  had  gathered  over  his  eyes. 

While  he  stood  there,  immovable,  transfixed  with  dismay, 
he  observed  nothing  of  the  little  drama  that  was  going  on  be- 
hind him ; he  did  not  feel  the  earnest  gaze  of  the  two  pairs  of 
eyes  that  were  fastened  on  him : the  eyes  of  Leonora,  with 
tender  sympathy ; the  eyes  of  the  young  man,  with  intense 
hatred. 

♦ See  Goethe’s  Works,  vol.  xxiv.,  p.  87.—“  Trip  to  Italy.” 


A DREAM  OF  LOVE, 


361 


“ I saw  him  turn  pale  and  shudder,”  hissed  Matteo  in  Leo- 
nora’s ear.  “ It  startled  him  to  hear  that  you  were  my  be- 
trothed. It  seems  that  you  have  carefully  concealed  the  fact 
that  you  were  my  affianced,  and  about  to  become  my  bride?” 

“ I have  not  concealed  it,  Matteo,  I had  only  forgotten  it.” 

“ A tender  sweetheart,  truly,  who  forgets  her  betrothal  as 
soon  as  another,  perhaps  a handsomer  man,  makes  his  appear- 
ance.” 

Ah,  Matteo,”  whispered  she,  tears  gushing  from  her  eyes, 
“you  do  me  injustice!” 

He  saw  these  tears  and  they  made  him  furious.  “ Come 
now,  and  introduce  me  to  this  handsome  signore,”  com- 
manded Matteo,  grimly ; “ tell  him,  in  my  presence,  that  our 
marriage  is  to  come  off  in  a week.  But  if  you  shed  a single 
tear  while  telling  him  this,  I will  murder  him,  and — ” 

“Step  aside,  signore,  if  you  please,”  said  a voice  behind 
him ; “ step  aside,  and  permit  me  to  pass  through  the  door- 
way.” 

The  voice  was  cold  and  composed,  as  was  also  the  gaze 
which  Goethe  fastened  on  the  young  man.  He  did  not  even 
glance  at  Leonora;  he  had  no  words  for  the  fair-haired  girl, 
who  looked  up  into  his  countenance  so  timidly  and  so 
anxiously.  He  passed  out  into  the  open  air,  down  the  steps 
and  into  the  garden,  leaving  behind  him  her  who  but  yester- 
day had  seemed  to  him  as  the  dawn  of  a new  day,  the  glorious 
sunshine  of  a new  youth — her,  who  to-day  had  cast  a pall 
over  his  soul,  and  had  cried  into  his  sorrowing,  quivering  heart 
the  last  adieu  of  departing  youth. 

He  passed  the  confines  of  the  park,  strode  rapidly  into  the 
forest  and  sought  out  its  densest  solitude.  There,  where  the 
stillness  was  unbroken,  save  by  the  rustling  of  trees  and  the 
dreamy  song  of  birds — there  he  threw  himself  on  a bed  of 
moss,  and  uttered  a cry,  a single,  fearful  cry,  that  made  the 
forest  ring,  and  betrayed  to  God  and  Nature  the  mystery  of 
the  anguish  of  a noble,  human  heart,  that  was  struggling 
with,  but  had  not  yet  overcome,  its  agony. 


352 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


Goethe  did  not  return  home  from  the  forest  until  late  in 
the  evening.  He  retired  to  his  room  and  locked  himself  in, 
desiring  to  see  no  one,  to  speak  to  no  one,  until  he  had  sub- 
dued the  demons  that  were  whispering  words  of  wild  derision 
and  mocking  despair  in  his  heart.  He  would  not  be  the 
slave  of  passion.  No  one  should  see  him  until  he  had  mas- 
tered his  agony.  Early  the  next  morning  he  again  wandered 
forth  into  the  forest  with  his  portfolio  under  his  arm ; leav- 
ing a message  at  the  house  for  his  friends  to  the  effect  that 
they  must  not  expect  him  back  to  dinner,  as  he  had  gone  out 
to  draw,  and  would  not  return  till  late  in  the  evening. 

His  friends,  and  she  above  all,  should  not  know  what  he 
suffered ! The  forest  is  discreet,  the  trees  will  not  betray  the 
poor  child  of  humanity  who  lies  at  their  feet  struggling  with 
his  own  heart. 

“I  will  not  suffer,  I will  not  bear  the  yoke!  Did  I come 
to  Rome  for  any  such  purpose?  did  I come  here  to  see  my 
peace  and  tranquillity  of  mind  burn  like  dry  straw,  under  the 
kindling  glances  of  a beautiful  girl?  No!  I will  not  suffer! 
Pain  shall  have  no  power  over  me ! It  will  and  shall  be  con- 
quered! Away  with  you,  hollow-eyed  monster!  I will  tread 
you  under  foot,  will  grind  you  in  the  dust  as  I would  an 
adder!’' 

He  sprang  up  from  his  bed  of  moss,  and  stamped  on  the 
ground,  furiously.  He  then  walked  on  deeper  into  the  forest, 
compelling  himself  to  be  calm,  and  to  contemplate  Nature. 

“ Goethe,  I command  you  to  be  calm,”  cried  he,  in  stento- 
rian tones.  “ I will  collect  buds  and  mosses,  and  choose  butter- 
flies and  insects.  Help  me.  Spirit  of  Nature ! aid  me,  benign 
mother.  Give  me  peace,  peace!” 

With  firmer  tread,  his  head  proudly  erect,  he  walked  on  in 
the  silent  forest,  still  murmuring  from  time  to  time : ‘‘  I will 
have  peace,  peace!” 

While  Goethe  was  struggling  with  his  heart,  in  the  depths 
of  the  forest,  and  striving  to  be  at  peace  with  himself,  an- 
other heart  was  undergoing  the  mmo  ordeal,  in  silence  and 


A DREAM  OF  LOVE. 


353 


solitude.  The  heart  of  a tender,  young  girl,  who  hoped  to 
attain  by  prayer  what  the  strong  man  was  determined  to 
achieve  by  the  power  of  his  will. 

She  did  not  even  know  what  it  was  that  had  so  suddenly 
darkened  her  heart ; she  only  felt  that  a change  had  taken 
place — that  she  was  transformed  into  another  being.  An  un- 
accountable feeling  of  anxiety  had  come  over  her — a restless- 
ness that  drove  her  from  place  to  place,  through  the  long 
avenues  of  the  park,  in  search  of  solitude.  She  only  asked 
herself  this : What  had  she  done  to  cause  Signore  Goethe  to 
avoid  her  so  studiously?  Why  had  he  left  the  house  so  early 
in  the  morning,  and  returned  so  late  in  the  evening,  for  the 
past  three  days?  Why  was  it  that  he  conversed  gayly  with 
others  when  he  returned  in  the  evening,  but  had  neither  word 
nor  look  for  her? 

These  questions  gave  her  no  rest;  they  tormented  her 
throughout  the  entire  day.  “ What  wrong  have  I done  him? 
Why  is  he  angry  with  me?  Why  does  he  avoid  me?’*  She 
sat  in  the  pavilion  repeating  the  questions  that  had  made  her 
miserable  for  the  last  three  days,  when  suddenly  Matteo,  who 
had  followed  her,  stepped  forward  and  regarded  her  with  such 
anger  and  hatred  that  she  trembled  under  his  glance  like  the 
dove  under  the  claws  of  the  falcon. 

‘‘  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Leonora?”  he  asked,  gruffl}^ 
‘‘  Why  are  you  weeping?” 

I do  not  know,  Matteo,”  murmured  Leonora.  Please  be 
patient  with  me,  it  will  soon  pass  away.” 

He  laughed  derisively.  “You  do  not  know!  Then  let  me 
tell  you.  You  have  no  honor!  You  have  no  fidelity!  You 
are  a vile,  faithless  creature,  and  not  worthy  of  my  love.” 

“How  can  you  speak  so,  Matteo?  What  have  I done?” 

“I  will  tell  you  what  you  have  done,”  he  cried,  furiously. 
“You  have  listened  to  the  honeyed  words  of  the  tempter. 
Be  still,  do  not  contradict  me ! I saw  you  seated  together — 
he,  breathing  sweet  poison  into  your  heart;  and  you,  eagerly 
inhaling  it.  I hate  and  despise  him,  and  I hate  and  curse 


354 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


you ! There ! I hurl  my  engagement  ring  at  your  feet,  and 
will  never  take  it  back  again — no,  never!  We  are  separated! 
Matteo  will  not  stoop  to  marry  a girl  who  has  broken  faith 
with  him.” 

‘‘I — with  you?  Matteo,  that  is  false!  That  is  false,  I tell 
you.” 

“False,  is  it?”  he  cried,  furiously.  “Well  then,  swear  by 
the  holy  virgin  that  your  heart  is  pure;  swear  by  all  the  saints 
that  you  love  me,  and  that  you  do  not  love  him,  this  Signore 
Goethe!” 

She  opened  her  mouth  as  if  to  speak,  but  no  words  escaped 
her  lips.  Her  lovely  features  assumed  an  expression  of  dis- 
may; she  stared  into  vacancy,  and  stretched  out  her  arms  as 
if  to  ward  off  some  horrible  vision  that  had  arisen  before  her. 

“ Speak!”  cried  he.  “ Swear  that  you  do  not  love  him!” 

Her  arms  sank  helplessly  to  her  side,  and  a deathly  pallor 
spread  over  her  countenance  as  she  slowly,  but  calmly  and 
distinctly  murmured : “I  cannot  swear,  Matteo!  I know  ifc 
now,  I feel  it  now:  I do  love  him!” 

Matteo  responded  with  a cry  of  fury,  and  struck  Leonora 
with  his  clinched  fist  so  forcibly  on  the  shoulder,  that  she 
fell  to  the  ground  with  a cry  of  pain.  He  stood  over  her, 
cursing  her,  and  vowing  that  he  would  have  nothing  more  to 
do  with  the  faithless  woman.  With  a last  imprecation,  he 
then  turned  and  rushed  out  of  the  pavilion  and  down  into 
the  garden.  All  was  still  in  the  pavilion.  Leonora  lay  there 
with  closed  eyelids,  stark  and  motionless,  her  countenance  of 
a deathly  pallor. 

A pale  woman  glided  in  through  the  open  door,  looked 
anxiously  around,  and  saw  the  form  of  the  poor  girl  extended 
on  the  fioor.  “ She  has  fainted!  I must  assist  her!” 

It  was  Angelica  Kaufmann  who  uttered  these  words.  She 
had  been  painting  outside  on  the  porch,  had  heard  every  word 
that  was  spoken  in  the  pavilion,  and  now  came  to  help  and 
console  the  poor  sufferer. 

She  knelt  down  by  her  side;  rested  her  head  on  her  knees, 


ADIEU  TO  ITALY. 


355 


drew  a smelling-bottle  from  her  dress-pocket  and  held  it  to 
the  poor  girl’s  nose. 

She  opened  her  eyes  and  gazed  dreamily  into  the  kind, 
sympathetic  countenance  of  the  noble  woman  who  knelt  over 
her. 

‘‘  It  is  you,  Signora  Angelica,”  murmured  Leonora.  ‘‘You 
were  near?  You  heard  all?” 

“I  heard  all,  Leonora,”  said  the  noble  artiste,  bending 
down  and  kissing  her  pale  lips. 

“And  you  will  betray  me!”  cried  she,  in  dismay.  “You 
will  tell  him?” 

“ No,  Leonora,  I will  not  betray  you  to  any  one.  I will  tell 
no  human  being  a word  of  what  I have  overheard.” 

“Swear  that  you  will  not,  signora.  Swear  that  you  will 
keep  my  secret,  and  that  you  will  not  betray  it  to  Mm^  even 
though  my  life  should  be  at  stake.” 

“ I swear  that  I will  not,  Leonora.  Have  confidence  in  me, 
my  child ! I have  suffered  as  you  suffer,  and  my  heart  still 
bears  the  scars  of  deep  and  painful  wounds.  I have  known 
the  anguish  of  hopeless  love!” 

“I  too,  suffer;  I suffer  terribly,”  murmured  Leonora.  “I 
would  gladly  die,  it  would  be  a relief!” 

“ Poor  child,  death  is  not  so  kind  a friend  as  to  hasten  to 
our  relief  when  we  call  him!  We  must  learn  to  endure  life, 
and  to  say  with  smiling  lips  to  the  dagger  when  we  draw  it 
from  the  bleeding  wound:  ‘Paete,  paete,  non  dolet!’  ” 


CHAPTEE  XI. 

ADIEU  TO  ITALY. 

Wkithikg  in  agony  for  three  days  and  three  long  nights, 
at  length  Goethe  found  relief  in  the  omnipresent  balsam,  all- 
healing Nature! 

The  poet-eagle  was  healed ! The  pinions  of  his  soul  had 
recovered  from  the  wounds  inflicted  by  Cupid’s  envenomed 


356 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


arrow.  Six  days  of  solitude,  six  days  of  restless  wandering, 
six  days  of  communing  with  God  and  Nature,  six  days  of 
struggling  with  his  own  weakness — these  six  days  have  made 
him  six  years  older,  taught  him  to  conquer  pain,  and  restored 
him  to  joyousness  and  confidence  in  himself. 

On  the  morning  of  the  seventh  day,  Goethe  entered  the 
room  where  his  friends  were  assembled,  and  greeted  them  with 
all  his  former  gayety  and  cordiality.  No  change  was  observ- 
able in  iis  countenance,  except  that  he  had  become  a little 
paler,  and  that  his  large  brown  eyes  looked  still  larger  than 
usual.  Only  once  did  an  anxious  expression  flit  over  his 
countenance,  and  that  was  when  he  asked  Signore  Zucchi  why 
his  dear  friend  Angelica  had  not  come  down  to  breakfast  with 
her  husband. 

She  is  not  here,”  replied  Zucchi.  “ She  has  been  in  Eome 
for  the  past  three  days.” 

“In  Eome?”  repeated  Goethe,  with  astonishment.  “We 
intended  making  an  excursion  together  through  the  Albanian 
Mountains,  and  now  she  has  left  us!  When  will  she  return?” 

“That  the  physicians  alone  can  tell  you,”  replied  Zucchi. 

“Is  Signora  Angelica  ill?”  asked  Goethe,  with  alarm. 

“ Oh,  no,  not  she ! But  the  young  girl,  the  beautiful  Leo- 
nora, has  suddenly  fallen  ill.  Angelica  found  her  lying 
insensible  on  the  floor  of  the  pavilion.  She  interested  herself 
in  the  poor  girl,  did  all  she  could  to  cheer  and  console  her, 
and  even  attempted  to  reconcile  her  to  her  affianced,  from 
whom  she  had  been  estranged.  Leonora,  however,  declared 
that  she  would  never  marry  young  Matteo — that  she  would 
become  no  man’s  wife,  but  would  always  remain  with  her 
brother.  At  her  earnest  request,  Angelica  took  her  to  Eome, 
to  her  brother’s  house.  She  had  hardly  arrived  there  before 
she  was  taken  violently  ill  with  an  attack  of  fever.  She  is  in 
a very  precarious  condition,  and  Angelica,  instead  of  finishing 
the  large  painting  for  which  an  Englishman  has  offered  four 
thousand  scudi,  has  made  herself  bliis  poor  girl’s  nurse.” 

Goethe  had  listened  to  this  narrative  in  silence,  his  head 


ADIEU  TO  ITALY. 


357 


bowed  down  on  his  breast.  When  Zucchi  ceased  speaking,  he 
raised  his  head,  and  cast  a quick  glance  around  the  room. 
He  saw  gay  and  unconcerned  countenances  only.  No  one  ob- 
served him — the  story  of  his  anguish  was  known  to  none  of 
his  friends. 

He  also  seemed  to  be  perfectly  quiet  and  composed — to  be 
occupied  solely  with  his  paintings  and  drawings.  When  his 
friends  suggested  that  the  time  had  now  arrived  to  carry  out 
their  projected  tour  through  the  Albanian  Mountains,  Goethe 
declined  to  accompany  them,  telling  them  that  an  alteration 
which  his  friends  in  Germany  desired  him  to  make  in  his 
‘^Egmont,”  necessitated  his  speedy  return  to  Eome. 

Goethe  returned  to  the  city  on  the  evening  of  the  same 
day,  and  repaired,  immediately  on  his  arrival,  to  the  house  of 
Signore  Bandetto,  to  inquire  after  his  sister’s  condition.  She 
was  still  dangerously  ill,  and  the  physicians  gave  but  little 
hope.  Signora  Angelica  was  with  her,  nursing  her  like  a 
tender  mother.  He  returned  to  the  house  for  the  same  pur- 
pose later  in  the  evening,  and  so  on  each  ensuing  day.  Grad- 
ually, the  bulletins  were  more  favorable,  and  he  was  told  that 
she  was  steadily  improving. 

Goethe  had  been  in  Eome  for  two  weeks,  and  had  neither 
written  nor  painted  during  this  time;  he  had  even  avoided 
the  gods  of  the  Belvidere  and  the  holy  halls  of  St.  Peter’s. 
The  wounds  of  his  heart  were  not  yet  quite  healed.  Leonora’s 
illness  still  made  them  smart. 

To-day,  he  had  again  repaired  to  Signor  Bandetto’s  house, 
had  seen  Angelica  Kaufmann,  and  had  been  told  that  all  dan- 
ger was  now  over.  A weight  of  care  was  removed  from  his 
soul,  and  he  now  entered  his  studio  with  a gay  and  unclouded 
countenance  for  the  first  time  during  his  stay  in  Eome.  His 
studio  was  a scene  of  wild  confusion ; books,  papers,  drawings, 
chairs,  and  tables,  were  in  the  greatest  disorder.  The  Juno 
Ludovisi’s  head  was  gray  with  dust,  and  the  impious  chamber- 
maid had  thrown  the  poet’s  dressing-gown  over  the  figure  of 
Cupid,  as  though  the  god  of  love  were  a clothes-rack. 


358 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


Goethe  laughed  loudly,  laughed  for  the  first  time  in  long, 
long  weeks,  and  relieved  the  poor  god  of  his  disgraceful 
burden. 

He  then  bowed  profoundly,  and  looked  intently  into  the 
mischievous  god’s  smiling  countenance,  as  if  to  defy  him  to 
do  his  worst. 

From  this  hour  Goethe  was  once  more  himself.  All  grief 
had  vanished  from  his  heart,  and  he  was  again  restored  to  his 
former  peace  and  gayety.  He  once  more  belonged  to  the  gods 
and  muses,  to  poetry  and  to  nature.  But,  above  all,  to 
poetry!  In  the  hours  of  his  anguish  the  arts  had  not  been 
able  to  rescue  and  strengthen  him,  but  wondrous  thoughts 
and  sublime  feelings  had  taken  root  in  his  soul. 

Pain  was  overcome,  as  was  also  love.  When  he  saw  Leo- 
nora, after  her  recovery,  and  when  she  thanked  him,  in  falter- 
ing tones,  for  his  sympathy,  and  his  frequent  inquiries  during 
her  illness,  Goethe  smiled,  and  treated  her  as  a kind  father 
treats  his  child,  or  a brother  his  sister. 

She  fully  understood  the  meaning  of  this  smile,  and  shed 
many  bitter  tears  in  her  little  room  in  the  stiUness  of  the 
night,  but  she  did  not  complain.  She  knew  that  this  short- 
lived passion  had  fallen  from  Goethe,  as  the  withered  blossom 
falls  from  the  laurel-tree,  and  that  she  would  be  nothing  more 
than  a remembrance  in  his  life. 

This  consciousness  she  wore  as  a talisman  against  all  sor- 
row; the  roses  returned  to  her  cheeks,  her  eyes  once  more 
shone  lustrously,  and  never  in  her  after-life  did  she  forget 
Goethe,  as  he  never  forgot  her.  The  remembrance  of  this 
beautiful  girl  shone  as  a bright,  unclouded  star  throughout 
Goethe’s  entire  life;  and  in  the  days  of  his  old  age,  when  the 
heart  that  had  throbbed  so  ardently  in  Rome  had  grown  cold, 
Goethe  said  and  wrote  of  this  fair  girl : “ Her  remembrance 
has  never  faded  from  my  thought  and  soul.” 

Another  painful  awakening  soon  followed  this  short  dream 
of  love — the  awakening  from  the  dreamy,  enchanting  life  in 
Italy,  the  return  to  Germany.  It  was  a pain  and  a joy  at  the 


ADIEU  TO  ITALY. 


359 


snme  time.  The  deep  pain  of  separation  from  Borne,  and  the 
joyful  prospect  of  returning  to  his  home  and  friends,  and, 
above  all,  to  his  friend  Charlotte  von  Stein? 

“It  was  for  her  sake  that  I conquered  this  passion,’’  said 
Goethe  to  himself.  “ I told  her  that  I would  return  to  her, 
unfettered  in  hand  and  heart,  and  I will  keep  my  promise. 
Charlotte’s  love,  Charlotte’s  friendship,  shall  console  me  for 
what  I have  denied  myself  here,  for  what  I leave  behind  me ! 
You,  too,  will  be  there.  Muses;  you  will  follow  me  to  the 
fatherland,  and  assemble  lovingly  around  the  poet  in  the  lit- 
tle house  in  Weimar.  A poet  I am;  that  I feel;  of  that  I 
am  now  convinced.  In  the  next  ten  years  of  work  that  will 
at  the  utmost  be  vouchsafed  me,  I will  strive  to  accomplish, 
by  diligent  application,  as  much  that  is  good  and  great  as  I 
achieved  without  hard  study  in  the  days  of  my  youthful  vigor 
and  enthusiasm.  I will  be  diligent  and  joyous!  I will  live, 
create,  and  enjoy,  and  that  I can  do  as  well  in  Weimar  as  in 
Borne ! I will  bear  the  Italian  heaven  within  me ; I will  erect 
‘Torquato  Tasso’  as  a monument  to  Italy  and  myself.  Fare- 
well, sublime,  divine  Boma!  A greeting  to  you,  you  dear  lit- 
tle city,  in  which  the  prince  lives  whom  I love,  and  the  friend 
who  belongs  to  my  soul.  A greeting  to  you,  Weimar!” 


BOOK  TV. 


CHAPTBK  I. 

THE  KETÜRK. 

To-day  is  the  anniversary  of  the  birthday  of  the  beautiful 
Princess  Ferdinand,  and  is  to  be  celebrated  by  a grand  recep- 
tion in  the  royal  palace  of  Berlin.  The  rank  and  fashion  of 
Berlin  are  invited.  The  ladies  of  the  aristocracy  are  occupied 
with  nothing  but  their  toilette,  this  object  of  first  and  greatest 
importance  to  the  fair  creatures  who  form  so  marked  a contrast 
to  the  lilies  of  the  field,  which  neither  toil  nor  spin,  and  are 
yet  so  gorgeously  arrayed.  Nor  do  these  beautiful  lilies  of  the 
parlor  toil  or  spin ; nor  do  they  wait  for  the  Lord  to  array 
them,  but  take  this  care  upon  themselves,  and  make  it  an  affair 
of  state  in  their  lives.  To  the  Countess  Moltke  it  is  also  an 
affair  of  state,  and  all  the  more  so  as  her  waning  beauty  de- 
manded increased  attention  to  the  arts  of  the  toilette.  The 
rose-colored  satin  dress  lies  on  the  sofa,  awaiting  the  garland 
of  roses  destined  to  encircle  its  skirt.  Her  rich  black  hair 
is  also  to  be  adorned  with  a wreath  of  roses,  for  the  countess 
has  a decided  penchant  for  them  and  fancies  the  color  of  her 
robe  and  flowers  will  be  reflected  in  her  countenance,  and  im- 
part to  it  a youthful,  rosy  hue.  The  flowers  had  been  ordered 
a week  before  at  the  establishment  of  Marie  von  Leuthen, 
the  first  manufacturer  of  them  in  the  city,  and  the  countess  was 
now  awaiting  the  return  of  the  servant  she  had  sent  after  them. 
For  the  past  two  years,  and  since  the  day  on  which  she  had 
opened  her  store  on  Frederick  Street,  Marie  von  Leuthen  had 
furnished  flowers  for  all  the  ladies  of  high  rank  in  Berlin. 


THE  RETURN. 


361 


It  was  considered  hon  ton  to  buy  one’s  wreaths,  bouquets,  and 
garlands  from  her.  No  one  arranged  them  so  prettily  as  she, 
no  one  understood  imitating  Nature  in  so  beautiful  and  artistic 
a manner ; moreover,  it  gave  one  the  appearance  of  patronizing 
the  unfortunate  young  woman,  whose  fate  had  been  the  all- 
engrossing  topic  of  conversation  in  good  society  for  an  entire 
week.  Her  flowers  were  also  very  dear,  and  it  was  therefore 
all  the  more  honorable  to  be  able  to  say : I purchased  them 

from  Madame  von  Leuthen.  True,  she  is  exceedingly  dear, 
but  her  work  is  good,  and,  moreover,  it  is  a sort  of  duty  to 
assist  her  with  our  patronage.  She  is,  as  it  were,  one  of  us; 
we  have  been  entertained  by  her,  and  have  enjoyed  many 
agreeable  evenings  at  her  house.” 

Marie  von  Leuthen  had  ceased  to  be  a lady  of  fashion,  but 
she  had  become  the  fashionable  flower-manufacturer  of  the 
city,  and,  as  we  have  already  said,  it  was  considered  essential 
to  adorn  one’s  self  from  her  establishment. 

Madame  von  Moltke  was  therefore  not  a little  dismayed 
when  the  servant  returned,  and  announced  that  the  flowers 
were  not  ready,  and  that  Madame  von  Leuthen  begged  to  be 
excused  for  not  having  been  able  to  furnish  them. 

But  did  you  not  tell  her  that  I must  necessarily  have 
them?”  asked  the  countess. 

My  lady,  I not  only  told  old  Trude  so,  but  I reproached 
her  violently  for  having  accepted  an  order  which  her  mistress 
could  not  execute ; but  the  old  woman  shut  the  door  in  my 
face,  and  gave  me  no  other  answer  than  this:  ‘The  flowers 
are  not  ready.’  ” 

“But  they  can  perhaps  still  be  got  ready,”  said  the  count- 
ess. “ Probably  she  has  a great  deal  of  work  on  hand  for  this 
evening,  and  it  will  perhaps  only  be  necessary  to  offer  her  a 
higher  price  in  order  to  secure  the  preference  above  her  other 
customers.  Let  my  carriage  be  driven  to  the  door.  I will 
see  and  speak  with  this  inconsiderate  person  myself!” 

A quarter  of  an  hour  later  the  countess’s  carriage  stopped 
in  front  of  the  store  in  Frederick  Street,  over  the  door  of 


3G2 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


which  was  written  in  large  letters : **  Marie  von  Leuthen, 

manufacturer  of  flowers.” 

The  servant  hurried  forward  to  open  the  door,  and  the 
countess  glided  majestically  into  the  store,  and  greeted  the 
old  woman,  who  advanced  to  meet  her,  with  a proud,  and 
almost  imperceptible  inclination  of  the  head. 

“I  wish  to  speak  with  Madame  von  Leuthen  herself,”  said 
the  countess,  imperiously. 

Her  ladyship,  however,  well  knows  that  none  of  Madame 
von  Leuthen ’s  customers  have  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her 
in  the  last  two  years,”  rejoined  the  old  woman  in  sharp  tones. 
“ Her  ladyship,  like  all  the  other  inquisitive  ladies,  has  often  at- 
tempted to  see  and  speak  with  my  mistress,  but  always  in 
vain.  Madame  von  Leuthen  has  neither  time  nor  inclination 
to  be  chatted  with  or  stared  at.  She  does  the  work  and  I re- 
ceive the  orders.  Her  ladyship  must  therefore  have  the  good- 
ness to  say  what  she  has  to  say  to  old  Trude.” 

‘‘I  have  come  for  my  flowers,”  said  the  countess,  angrily. 
‘‘  My  servant  tells  me  that  he  received  the  very  impertinent 
message  that  they  not  only  were  not,  but  would  not  be,  ready. 
I can,  however,  scarcely  credit  his  statement,  for  I ordered 
these  flowers  myself,  and  when  an  order  has  been  accepted,  it 
must  of  course  be  fllled  at  the  proper  time.” 

‘‘Your  servant  told  you  the  truth,”  replied  old  Trude,  in 
grumbling  tones,  “ the  roses  will  not  be  ready.” 

‘‘And  why  not,  if  I may  be  permitted  to  ask?” 

“ Certainly,  why  should  you  not  ask?  Of  course  you  may 
ask,”  rejoined  Trude,  shrugging  her  shoulders.  “ The  answer 
is:  The  roses  have  not  been  got  ready,  because  Madame  von 
Leuthen  has  not  worked.” 

“ Has  your  mistress  then  done  so  well  that  she  is  on  the 
point  of  retiring  from  business?”  asked  the  countess. 

Trude  raised  her  eyes  with  a peculiar  expression  to  her  lady- 
ship’s haughty  countenance,  and  for  a moment  her  withered 
old  face  quivered  with  pain.  But  this  emotion  she  quickly 
suppressed,  and  assumed  her  former  peevish  and  severe  manner. 


THE  RETURN. 


363 


‘‘  What  does  my  lady  care  whether  my  little  Marie  desires 
to  retire  to  rest  or  not,  or  whether  the  good  Lord  wills  that 
she  shall  do  so,”  said  she,  gruffly.  “Enough,  the  roses  can- 
not indeed  he  ready,  and  if  her  ladyship  is  angry,  let  her 
scold  old  Trude,  for  she  alone  is  to  blame,  as  she  never  even 
gave  Madame  von  Leuthen  your  order.” 

“This  is, ‘however,  very  wrong,  very  impertinent,”  cried 
the  countess.  “ Pray,  why  did  you  accept  the  order?” 

“True,  that  I ought  not  to  have  done,”  murmured  the  old 
woman  to  herself,  “but  I thought  she  would  grow  better,  and 
instead — my  lady,”  said  she,  interrupting  herself.  “I  have 
nothing  more  to  say,  and  must  beg  you  to  content  yourself 
with  my  reply.  No  more  flowers  will  be  furnished  to-day, 
and  I will  immediately  lock  the  front  door.” 

“She  is  a rude  person,”  cried  the  countess,  angrily.  “If 
she  dares  to  insult  those  who  assisted  her  impoverished  mis- 
tress out  of  benevolence  and  pity,  in  this  shameless  manner, 
the  consequence  will  be  that  her  customers  will  withdraw  their 
patronage  and  give  her  no  more  orders.” 

“As  you  please,  my  lady,”  said  old  Trude,  sorrowfully. 
“ But  be  kind  enough  to  go,  if  you  have  nothing  further  to  say.  ” 

The  countess  gave  the  presuming  old  woman  an  annihilat- 
ing glance,  and  rustled  out  of  the  store  and  into  her  carriage. 

Trude  hastily  locked  the  door  behind  her,  and  pulled  down 
the  blind  on  the  inside.  “ Who  knows  whether  I shall  ever 
unlock  this  door  again!”  sighed  she.  “ Who  knows  whether 
she  shall  ever  make  flowers  again!” 

The  old  woman  sank  down  on  a chair  and  burst  into  tears. 
She  quickly  dried  her  eyes,  however,  and  assumed  an  air  of 
gayety  when  she  heard  her  name  called  in  the  adjoining  room, 
and  walked  hurriedly  into  the  apartment  from  which  the 
voice  had  proceeded. 

“ Here  I am,  my  little  Marie,”  said  she,  on  entering;  “ here 
I am.”  She  hurried  forward  to  the  pale  lady,  who  was  sitting 
in  the  arm-chair  at  the  large  round  table. 

Was  that  really  Marie?  Was  this  pale  woman  with  the 
24 


864 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


large  lustrous  eyes,  with  the  hectic  flush  on  her  hollow 
cheeks — was  this  really  that  proud  beauty  who  had  laid  aside 
rank  and  wealth  with  royal  contempt — who  with  joyous  cour- 
age had  determined  to  create  for  herself  a new  life,  and,  after 
having  avenged  herself  on  her  unworthy  husband  and  her  un- 
natural mother,  had  gone  out  into  the  world  to  earn  a sub- 
sistence with  the  work  of  her  hands?  The  flgure  of  that 
woman  had  been  tall  and  full — the  figure  of  this  woman  was 
shrunken,  and,  in  spite  of  the  heavy  woollen  dress  which  she 
wore,  it  was  evident  that  nothing  of  their  former  beauty  and 
fulness  remained  to  these  shoulders,  to  these  arms,  and  to  this 
unnaturally  slight  figure.  And  yet,  although  this  pale  woman 
had  retained  so  little  of  her  former  beauty,  there  was  still  an 
inexpressible,  a touching  charm  in  her  appearance.  Disease 
had  laid  waste  her  fair  form,  but  disease  had  not  been  able  to 
deprive  these  eyes  of  their  lustre,  nor  these  cheeks  of  their 
rosy  hue.  To  be  sure,  the  same  lustrous  eyes  and  flushed 
cheeks  were  the  fatal  evidences  of  that  disease  which  gives 
those  whom  it  destroys  the  appearance  of  improvement,  and 
permits  them  to  hope  until  the  last  moment.  Her  brow  was 
clear  and  transparent,  and  a soft,  tranquil  smile  rested  oftener 
on  her  thin,  delicate  lips  than  formerly.  True,  her  figure 
was  thin  and  unattractive,  but  this  attenuation  gave  to  her 
appearance  something  spirituelle.  When  she  glided  lightly 
and  noiselessly  through  the  room,  the  thought  would  occur 
to  you  that  she  was  not  a woman  of  earth,  but  must  really  be 
one  of  those  of  whom  we  read  in  song  and  story — one  who, 
for  some  fault  committed  in  heaven,  or  in  the  realm  of  spirits, 
is  compelled  to  descend  to  the  earth  to  make  atonement  by 
learning  to  suffer  and  endure  pain  like  mortals!  She  had 
been  working  flowers  of  every  variety.  Roses  and  lilies, 
violets  and  forget-me-nots,  tulips  and  pinks,  and  whatever  else 
the  names  of  these  lovely  children  of  the  spring  and  sun  may 
be,  lay  on  the  table  in  the  greatest  confusion.  They  were  in 
the  varied  stages  of  completion,  some  half  finished,  and  others 
wanting  only  a leaf  or  the  stem.  Marie  held  a bunch  of  lilies 


THE  RETURN. 


365 


in  her  delicate  hand,  and  Trude  sighed  when  she  observed  it. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  her  darling  looked  like  the  angel  of 
death,  standing  on  the  brink  of  the  grave,  and  waving  her 
lilies  in  a greeting  to  the  new  life  that  was  dawning  for  the 
dying  mortal ! 

“ Trude,  who  was  it  I heard  speaking  in  the  other  room, 
who  spoke  in  such  loud  tones?’'  asked  Marie,  as  she  leaned 
back  in  the  arm-chair,  as  if  exhausted  by  her  work. — Why 
do  you  not  answer?  Why  do  you  not  tell  me  who  was  there? 
Good  heavens!”  she  cried,  suddenly,  ‘^it  cannot  have  been — 
0 Trude,  for  God’s  sake,  tell  me,  who  was  it?  And  if  it  was 
he,  Trude — if  he  has  at  last  come,  then — ” 

“Be  still,  Marie!”  answered  the  old  woman,  interrupting 
her,  and  assuming  an  air  of  gayety.  “ You  are  still  the  same 
young  girl,  just  as  impatient  as  ever!  No,  no,  it  was  not 
he ! It  was  only  Countess  Moltke,  who  wished  to  speak  with 
you  about  a garland  of  roses.” 

“ Countess  Moltke!”  repeated  Marie,  thoughtfully.  “She, 
too,  was  present  on  that  terrible  day  when — ” 

“ Do  not  speak  of  it,  do  not  think  of  it!”  entreated  the  old 
woman.  “ You  know  the  doctor  told  you  that  if  you  desired 
to  grow  healthy  and  strong  again,  you  should  lay  aside  all  sad 
thoughts,  and  endeavor  to  be  right  cheerful.” 

“I  am  cheerful,  Trude,”  replied  Marie,  smiling.  “Each 
day  brings  him  nearer,  each  fleeting  hour  shortens  our  long 
separation.  I now  bless  the  disease  that  attacked  me  two 
months  ago,  for,  under  the  impression  that  I was  about  to 
die,  you  then  did  what  I never  would  have  done,  you  caused 
good  Professor  Gedicke  to  write  to  him  and  tell  him  to  come 
home,  as  his  Marie  was  very  ill.  I thank  you,  good  Trude, 
for  confessing  this,  and  for  giving  me  the  blessed  assurance 
that  he  will  soon  be  here.  But  yet  it  was  cruel  to  terrify  and 
alarm  him!  I hope,  however,  that  the  professor  has  again 
written  since  then,  and  told  him  that  all  danger  is  over,  and 
that  I am  very  greatly  improved!” 

‘‘And  he  did  so,  Marie;  he  wrote  immediately  after  the 


366 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


receipt  of  his  letter  from  Rome,  announcing  his  departure  for 
home,  and  requesting  that  further  intelligence,  as  to  your 
condition,  should  be  sent  to  him  at  the  post-office  in  Stuttgart. 
Mr.  Moritz  knows  that  all  danger  is  over,  and  that  you  are 
doing  well.  You  are  certainly  doing  well,  are  you  not,  dear 
Marie?’' 

“ Yes,  I am  doing  well,  very  well  indeed,  and  better  each 
day.  I feel,  at  times,  as  though  I had  wings,  and  had  flown 
high  above  the  earth ; when  I look  down,  every  thing  seems 
small  and  indistinct,  as  though  far  away  in  the  dim  distance. 
You,  however,  are  always  near  me,  as  is  also  his  dear  coun- 
tenance; his  large  dark  eyes  are  ever  shining  into  my  heart 
like  two  stars.  I feel  so  happy  when  I see  them — so  light  and 
free,  that  I seem  to  have  bidden  adieu  to  all  earthly  care  and 
sorrow.  Only  at  times  my  eyes  grow  a little  dim,  and  my 
hands  tremble  so  when  I wish  to  work,  and  then  something 
pains  me  here  in  the  breast  occasionally!  But  this  need  not 
disquiet  you,  Trude,  it  only  pains  a little,  and  it  will  soon 
pass  away.” 

“Yes,  indeed,  it  will  soon  pass  away!”  said  Trude,  turning 
aside,  and  hastily  wiping  away  the  tears  which  rushed  to  her 
eyes  in  spite  of  her  endeavors  to  repress  them.  “ Certainly, 
Marie,  you  will  soon  be  entirely  restored  to  health  and 
strength;  this  weakness  is  only  the  result  of  your  long  illness.  ” 

Marie  did  not  reply,  but  cast  a quick,  searching  glance  at 
old  Trude ’s  kind  face,  and  then  slowly  raised  her  eyes  toward 
heaven  with  an  expression  of  earnest  entreaty.  But  tuen  a, 
soft  smile  flitted  over  her  countenance,  and  the  ominous  roses 
on  her  cheeks  burned  brighter. 

“Yes,  I will  soon  recover,  Trude,”  she  said,  almost  gayly. 
'"Under  such  treatment  I cannot  fail  to  recover.  You  nurse 
me  as  tenderly  as  a mother  nurses  her  child.  And  it  is  very 
necessary  that  I should,  good  Trude,  for  our  supply  of  flowers 
is  almost  exhausted,  and  our  purse  is  empty.  This  is  the 
case,  is  it  not?  You  gave  Countess  Moltke  no  garland  of 
roses  because  we  had  no  more.” 


THE  RETURN. 


367 


Yes,  such  is  the  case,  Marie,  if  you  must  know.  The  roses 
are  all  sold,  hut  that  is  easily  accounted  for,  as  no  elegant  lady 
is  willing  to  wear  any  flowers  but  yours.  You  are  quite  right, 
Marie,  you  must  make  haste  and  get  well,  so  that  you  can 
make  a fresh  supply  of  beautiful  roses.  But,  in  order  to  be 
entirely  restored  to  health,  you  must  rest  and  do  no  work 
whatever  for  the  next  few  weeks.'’ 

“ The  next  few  weeks!"  repeated  Marie,  in  a slightly  mock- 
ing tone  of  voice.  “ The  next  few  weeks ! Trude,  that  seems 
like  an  almost  inconceivable  eternity,  and — But,  good 
heavens ! you  do  not  believe  that  weeks  will  pass  before  Philip 
comes?" 

“ But  why  should  I believe  any  thing  of  the  kind,  Marie?" 
said  the  old  nurse,  in  tranquillizing  tones.  He  left  Rome 
long  ago,  and  Mr.  Gedicke  says  we  may  expect  him  at  any  hour. " 

“How  pleasantly  that  sounds!  what  music  lies  in  your 
words,  Trude!"  sighed  Marie.  “We  may  expect  him  at  any 
hour!  Do  you  know,  good  Trude,  that  I am  still  nothing 
more  than  a foolish  child ! I have  been  awaiting  Philip  these 
two  long  years,  and  during  this  time  I have  always  been  joy- 
ous and  patient,  for  I know  that  this  separation  was  necessary, 
and  would  be  a blessing  to  him  I loved.  ‘Before  the  roses 
bloom,  the  thorns  grow,  and  we  are  wounded  by  them  when 
we  pluck  the  lovely  flowers!’  This  I have  constantly  repeated 
to  myself  during  these  two  long  years,  and  have  borne  the 
pain  which  the  thorns  caused  me  without  murmuring.  But 
now,  when  I know  that  I will  soon  see  him  again — now,  each 
hour  is  magnifled  into  an  eternity  of  torment,  and  all  reason- 
ing is  in  vain,  and  all  patience  exhausted.  I feel  as  though  I 
could  die  for  very  longing  to  see  him.  And  yet,  I am  deter- 
mined not  to  die ; I must  live — live  to  pluck  the  roses  after 
having  suffered  so  much  from  the  thorns.  But,  alas ! Trude, 
if  my  sufferings  shall  have  been  too  great — if  I should  die  of 
these  many  wounds!  Sometimes  it  seems  to  me  as  though  my 
strength  were  entirely  exhausted,  and — There,  the  thorn  is 
again  piercing  my  heart!  How  it  pains!" 


368 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


She  sank  back  groaning,  and  pressed  her  quivering  hand  to 
her  breast.  Trude  hurried  forward,  rubbed  her  cold,  damp 
brow  with  strengthening  essences,  and  then  ran  to  the  closet 
to  get  the  little  phial  of  medicine  which  the  physician  had 
prescribed  for  such  attacks  of  weakness. 

‘‘  Open  your  lips,  Marie,  and  swallow  these  drops;  they  will 
relieve  you.” 

She  slowly  opened  her  eyes,  and  her  trembling  hand  grasped 
the  spoon  which  Trude  had  filled  from  the  phial,  and  carried 
it  to  her  pale  lips. 

“ That  will  do  you  good,  my  dear  child,”  said  the  old  nurse, 
in  a firm  voice,  that  knew  nothing  of  the  tears  which  stood  in 
her  eyes.  “ The  doctor  said  these  little  attacks  were  harm- 
less, and  would  cease  altogether  by  and  by.” 

“Yes,  they  will  cease  altogether  by  and  by,”  whispered 
Marie,  after  a pause.  “ Cease  with  my  life ! I will  not  die  I 
No,  I will  not!” 

With  a quick  movement,  she  arose  and  walked  rapidly  to 
and  fro  in  the  little  room.  A few  roses  and  violets  were 
swept  from  the  table  by  Marie’s  dress,  and  fell  to  the  fioor. 
In  passing,  Marie’s  foot  crushed  them.  She  stood  still  and 
looked  down  sadly  at  these  fiowers. 

“See,  Trude,”  said  she,  with  a faint  smile,  “a  few  mo- 
ments ago  I was  complaining  of  having  suffered  so  much  from 
thorns,  and  now  it  looks  as  if  Fate  intended  to  avenge  me.  It 
strews  my  path  with  fiowers,  as  for  a bride  on  her  way  to  the 
altar,  or  for  a corpse  that  is  being  borne  to  the  grave.” 

“ But,  my  child,  what  strange  words  these  are !”  cried  Trude, 
with  assumed  indignation.  “ The  physician  says  that  all  dan- 
ger is  past,  and  that  you  are  steadily  improving ; and  you  say 
such  sad  and  ominous  things  that  you  make  me  feel  sad  my- 
self, and  make  the  tears  gather  in  my  eyes.  That  is  not 
right,  Marie,  for  you  well  know  that  the  doctor  said  you  must 
carefully  avoid  all  agitation  of  mind,  and  endeavor  to  be 
uniformly  cheerful.” 

“ It  is  true,  good  nurse,  I ought  to  be  cheerful,  and  I will 


THE  RETURN. 


369 


be  cheerful.  You  see  it  is  only  because  I so  long  to  live — so 
long  to  pluck  a few  roses  after  having  been  wounded  by  so 
many  thorns.  You  must  not  scold  me  on  this  account/’  con- 
tinued Marie,  as  she  entwined  her  arms  lovingly  around  her 
old  nurse.  No,  you  must  not  scold  me!” 

‘‘I  am  not  scolding  you,  you  dear,  foolish  child,”  said 
Trude,  laughing.  ‘‘  I,  too,  so  long  to  see  you  live ; and  if  I 
could  purchase  life  for  you  with  my  heart’s  blood — well,  you 
know  I would  gladly  shed  my  blood  for  you,  drop  by  drop.” 

“Yes,  I know  you  would,”  cried  Marie,  tenderly,  as  she 
rested  her  head  on  Trade’s  shoulder. 

“Fortunately,  however,  it  is  not  necessary,”  continued  the 
old  nurse.  “Marie  will  live  and  be  happy  without  old 
Trade’s  assistance.  Professor  Philip  Moritz  will  make  us 
healthy  and  happy.” 

“You,  too?”  asked  Marie,  a happy  smile  lighting  up  her 
countenance. — “Really,  Trade,  I believe  you  love  him  too, 
and  I suppose  I ought  to  be  jealous  of  you  for  daring  to  love 
my  Philip.” 

“Yes,  I not  only  love  him,  but  am  completely  bewitched 
by  him,”  rejoined  Trude,  laughing.  “I  long  for  him,  day 
and  night,  because  I desire  to  see  my  child  happy.  Like  a 
good,  sensible  girl,  you  must  endeavor  to  recover  your  health 
and  strength,  in  order  that  your  Philip  may  rejoice  when  he 
arrives,  and  not  suppose  you  to  be  still  unwell.” 

“You  are  right,  Trade,  Philip  will  be  alarmed  if  I am  not 
looking  well  and  strong.  But  then  I really  am  well ; all  that 
I want  is  a little  more  strength.  But  that  will  soon  come,  as 
I intend  to  guard  against  all  agitation  and  sad  thoughts. 
These  thoughts,  however,  return,  again  and  again,  par- 
ticularly at  night,  when  I am  lying  awake  and  feel  feverish ; 
they  sit  around  my  bed  like  ghosts,  and  not  only  tell  me  sad 
legends  of  the  past  but  also  make  gloomy  prophecies  for  the 
future.  At  night  I seem  to  hear  a cricket  chirping  in  my 
heart  in  shrill,  wailing  tones:  ‘Marie,  you  must  die,  you  have 
made  many  roses  for  others,  but  life  has  no  roses  for  you, 


370 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


and’ — but  this  is  nonsense,  and  we  will  speak  of  it  no 
longer.” 

“We  will  laugh  at  it,”  said  Trude,  “ that  will  be  still  bet^ 
ter.”  She  stooped  down  to  pick  up  the  flowers  Marie  had 
trodden  under  foot,  and  availed  herself  of  this  opportunity 
to  wipe  the  tears  from  her  eyes.  “ The  poor  things ! look, 
Marie,  you  have  completely  crushed  the  poor  little  violets!” 

“ There  is  a beautiful  and  touching  poem  about  a crushed 
violet,”  said  Marie,  regarding  the  flowers  thoughtfully. 
“ Philip  loved  it,  because  his  adored  friend,  Goethe,  had 
written  it.  One  day  when  I showed  him  the  first  violets 
I had  made,  he  smiled,  pressed  the  little  flowers  to  his 
lips  and  repeated  the  last  lines  of  this  poem.  It  seems  to 
me  that  I still  hear  the  dear  voice  that  always  sounded  like 
sweet  music  in  my  ear.  ‘And  if  I die,  ’tis  she  who  takes  my 
life;  through  her  I die,  beneath  her  feet!’  ” 

“There  you  have  commenced  again,”  sighed  Trude.  “No 
more  sad  words,  Marie,  it  is  not  right!” 

“You  are  right,  nurse,”  cried  Marie,  throwing  the  flowers 
on  the  table.  “What  care  we  for  crushed  violets!  We  will 
have  nothing  to  do  with  them!  We  will  be  gay!  See,  I am 
ascending  my  throne  again,”  she  continued,  with  mock  grav- 
ity, as  she  seated  herself  in  the  arm-chair.  “Now  I am  the 
princess  in  the  fairy-tale,  and  you  are  the  old  housekeeper 
whose  duty  it  is  to  see  that  her  mistress  is  never  troubled 
with  ennui.  Begin,  madame;  relate  some  story,  or  the  prin- 
cess will  become  angry  and  threaten  you  with  her  bunch  of 
lilies.” 

“ I am  not  at  all  afraid,”  said  Trude,  “ I have  a large  supply 
of  pretty  stories  on  hand.  I learned  a great  deal  while  at- 
tending to  your  commissions  yesterday,  Marie.” 

“ My  commissions?  Ah  yes,  I recollect,  I asked  you  to 
look  at  the  little  monument  on  my  father’s  grave.  It  has 
already  been  placed  there,  has  it  not?” 

“ Yes,  Marie,  and  the  large  cross  of  white  marble  is  beauti- 
ful; the  words  you  had  engraved  on  it  in  golden  letters  are 


THE  RETURN. 


371 


so  simple  and  touching  that  the  tears  rushed  to  my  eyes  when 
I read:  ‘He  has  gone  to  eternal  rest;  peace  be  with  him  and 
with  us  all ! His  daughter,  Marie,  prays  for  him  on  earth ; 
may  he  pray  for  her  in  heaven!’  The  golden  words  shone 
beautifully  in  the  sun.” 

“ They  came  from  my  heart,  Trude.  I am  glad  that  I can 
think  of  my  father  without  sorrow  or  reproach.  We  were 
reconciled ; he  often  came  to  see  me,  and  looked  on  at  my 
work  for  hours  together,  rejoicing  when  I had  finished  a 
flower.” 

It  is  true,”  said  Trude,  “ your  father  was  entirely  changed. 
I believe  his  conscience  was  awakened,  and  that  he  became 
aware  of  how  greatly  he  had  sinned  against  a good  and  lovely 
daughter.” 

“ Do  not  speak  so,  Trude.  All  else  is  forgotten,  and  I will 
only  remember  that  he  loved  me  when  he  died.  The  blessing 
uttered  by  his  dying  lips  has  wiped  out  his  harsh  words  from 
my  remembrance.  Let  it  be  so  with  you,  too,  Trude ! Prom» 
ise  me  that  you  will  think  of  my  father  with  kindness  only.” 

“ I promise,”  said  the  old  woman,  hesitatingly,  “ although — * 
well,  let  the  dead  rest,  we  will  speak  of  the  living.  Marie^ 
whom  do  you  suppose  I met  on  my  return  from  the  church- 
yard? Mrs.  General  von  Leu  then!” 

‘^My  mother,”  exclaimed  Marie,  raising  her  hand  convuL 
sively  to  her  heart,  “my  mother!” 

“Yes,  your  unnatural  mother,”  cried  Trude,  passionately; 
“ the  woman  who  is  the  cause  of  all  your  misfortunes  and  sor- 
rows— the  woman  I hate,  and  will  never  forgive — no,  not 
even  in  my  hour  of  death.” 

“ I have  already  forgiven  her,  although  my  hour  of  death 
is,  as  I hope,  far  distant.  Where  did  you  see  her?” 

“ Riding  in  a beautiful  carriage,  and  very  grand  and  stately 
she  looked,  toio.  Happening  to  see  me,  she  called  out  to  the 
servant,  who  sat  by  the  coachman’s  side,  to  halt.  The  car- 
riage stopped,  and  her  ladyship  had  the  wondrous  condescen- 
sion to  beckon  to  me  to  approach.” 


372 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


‘‘And  you  did  so,  I hope?”  said  Marie,  eagerly. 

“Yes,  I did,  but  only  because  I thought  you  would  be 
angry  with  me  if  I did  not.  I stepped  up  to  the  carriage, 
and  her  ladyship  greeted  me  with  the  haughtiness  of  a queen, 
and  inquired  after  the  health  of  my  dear  mistress.  She 
wished  to  know  if  you  were  still  happy  and  contented,  and 
whether  you  never  regretted  what  you  had  done.  To  all  of 
which  I joyously  replied,  that  you  were  happy  and  contented, 
and  were  about  to  be  married  to  the  dear  professor  who  was 
expceted  to  arrive  to-day.  Her  ladyship  looked  annoyed  at 
first,  but  soon  recovered  her  equanimity,  and  said  she  was 
glad  to  hear  it.  She  then  observed  that  something  of  a very 
agreeable  nature  had  also  occurred  to  her  a short  time  ago, 
and  that  her  exalted  name  and  high  connections  had  at  last 
been  a great  service  to  her.  She  had  become  lady  stewardess 
of  the  Countess  von  Ingenheim’s  household,  and  at  her  par- 
ticular request  his  majesty  the  king  had  permitted  her  to 
resume  her  family  name,  and  call  herself  Countess  Dannen- 
berg. She  had  a large  salary,  a waiting-maid,  and  a man- 
servant. Moreover,  the  king  had  given  her  a pair  of  beautiful 
horses  and  a magnificent  carriage,  with  her  coat  of  arms 
painted  on  the  door.  The  king  was  very  gracious  to  her,  as 
was  also  Countess  Ingenheim.  I tell  you,  Marie,  her  ladyship 
was  almost  delirious  with  joy,  and  exceedingly  proud  of  her 
position.  You  know  who  this  Countess  Ingenheim  is,  do  you 
not?” 

Marie  shook  her  head  slowly.  “ I believe  I did  know,  but 
I have  forgotten.” 

“ This  Countess  Ingenheim  is  the  wife  of  the  left  hand  of 
our  king;  her  maiden  name  was  Julie  von  Voss,  and  she  was 
maid  of  honor  to  the  queen-dowager.  The  king  made  her  a 
countess,  and  his  bad  councillors  and  favorites  told  him  he 
could  marry  her  rightfully,  although  he  already  had  a wedded 
wife.  These  exalted  interpreters  of  God’s  Word  told  the  king 
that  it  was  written  in  the  Ihble:  ‘Let  not  your  right  hand 
know  what  the  left  does,  ’ and  Hiat  this  meant : ’It  does  not 


THE  RETURN. 


373 


concern  the  wife  of  yonr  right  hand,  although  you  should  take 
another  on  your  left.  ’ The  king  was  easily  persuaded  of  this, 
and  the  pious  Privy-councillor  Wöllner,  who  is  an  ordained 
priest,  performed  the  ceremony  himself,  and  is  on  this  account 
in  high  favor  at  court.  The  newly-created  Countess  von 
Dannenberg  has  become  lady  stewardess  to  the  newly-created 
Countess  Ingenheim;  she  is  proud  of  it,  too,  and  does  not 
consider  it  beneath  her  dignity  to  be  in  the  service  of  the  wife 
of  the  right  hand.  To  have  a celebrated  professor  as  son-in- 
law was  not  enough  for  her — that  she  called  a disgrace.  But 
she  bends  the  knee  to  gilded  disgrace,  and  acts  as  if  she  were 
not  well  aware  that  the  wife  of  the  left  hand  is  no  better  than 
the  mistress,  and  that  the  ancient  nobility  of  the  Countess 
von  Dannenberg  is  sullied  when  it  comes  in  such  close  contact 
with  the  brand-new  nobility  of  the  Countess  Ingenheim.” 

‘^Say  no  more,  Trude,  do  not  give  way  to  passion,”  said 
Marie,  wearily.  “ I am  glad  that  she  has  at  last  found  the 
happiness  and  content  she  has  so  long  been  seeking.  On 
earth  each  one  must  seek  out  his  happiness  in  his  own  way, 
and  we  can  reproach  no  one  because  his  is  not  ours.” 

But  we  can  reproach  every  one  who  seeks  it  in  a dishonor- 
able way,  and  that  her  ladyship  has  done,  and — ” 

‘^Be  still,  Trude!”  interrupted  Marie;  “you  forget  that 
she  is  my  mother.” 

“Why  should  I remember  it?”  cried  Trude,  passionately; 
“ why  should  not  I also,  at  last,  forget  what  she  has  forgotten 
throughout  her  entire  life?  I hate  her!” 

“ And  I,”  said  Marie,  softly,  as  she  folded  her  hands  piously 
and  looked  upward,  “ I forgive  her  with  my  whole  heart,  and 
wish  her  all  the  happiness  she  can  desire.” 

“Ah,  Marie,”  cried  the  old  woman,  as  she  hurried  forward, 
seized  Marie’s  hands  and  covered  them  with  kisses,  “how 
good  an  angel  my  Marie  is,  and  how  wicked,  how  abominable 
an  old  woman  I am!  Forgive  me,  my  child,  I,  too,  will  en- 
deavor to  be  better,  and  to  learn  to  be  good  and  pious  from 
you.” 


374 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


“As  if  you  were  not  so  already,  my  dear  nurse!“  cried 
Marie,  as  she  entwined  her  arms  lovingly  around  the  old 
woman,  who  had  seated  herself  on  a stool  at  her  feet  and  was 
looking  up  at  her  tenderly.  “ As  if  you  were  not  the  best, 
the  most  loving,  the  kindest  and  the  bravest  of  women! 
What  would  have  become  of  me  without  you?  How  could  I 
have  survived  these  two  long,  terrible  years,  if  you  had  not 
stood  at  my  side  like  a mother?  Who  has  worked  with  me 
and  kept  my  little  household  in  good  order?  Who  nursed  me 
when  I was  sick?  Who  cheered  me  in  my  hours  of  sadness, 
and  laughed  with  me  in  my  hours  of  gladness?  You,  my 
dear,  kind  nurse,  you  did  all  this : your  noble,  honest,  brave 
heart  has  supported,  guarded,  and  protected  me.  I thank 
you  for  all  this ; I thank  you  for  your  love,  and  if  I should 
die,  my  last  breath  of  life  and  my  last  thought  will  be  a bless- 
ing for  my  dear,  good  nurse!” 

They  held  each  other  in  a long  and  close  embrace,  and  for 
a time  nothing  was  heard  but  sighs  and  suppressed  sobbing. 
Then  old  Trude  released  her  darling,  with  a last  tender  kiss. 

“ Here  we  are  in  the  midst  of  emotions  and  tears,”  said  she, 
“ although  we  had  determined  to  be  cheerful  and  gay,  in  order 
that  we  might  give  our  dear  Philip  a joyous  reception  if  he 
should  happen  to  come  to-day,  and  not  have  to  meet  him  with 
tear-stained  countenances.” 

“ Do  you,  then,  really  consider  it  possible  that  he  may  come 
to-day?”  asked  Marie,  eagerly. 

“ Professor  Gedicke  said  we  might  expect  him  at  any  hour,” 
replied  Trude,  smiling.  “ Let  us,  therefore,  be  gay  and 
merry ; the  days  of  pain  and  sorrow  are  gone,  and  hereafter 
your  life  will  be  full  of  happiness  and  joy.” 

“Do  you  really  believe  so,  Trude?”  asked  Marie,  fastening 
her  large  luminous  eyes  in  an  intent  and  searching  gaze  on 
the  pale,  wrinkled  countenance  of  her  old  nurse.  She  had 
the  courage  to  smile,  and  not  to  falter  under  the  anxious  gaze 
of  her  darling. 

“Certainly  I do,”  said  she;  “and  why  should  I not?  Is 


THE  RETURN. 


375 


not  your  lover  coming  back  after  a separation  of  two  years? 
are  we  not  to  have  a wedding,  and  will  we  not  live  together 
happily  afterward?  We  are  not  poor;  we  have  amassed  a lit- 
tle fortune  by  the  labor  of  our  hands.  To  be  sure,  we  cannot 
keep  an  equipage  for  our  Marie,  but  still  she  will  have  enough 
to  enable  her  to  hire  a carriage  whenever  she  wishes  to  ride, 
and  it  seems  to  me  it  is  all  the  same  whether  we  drive  with 
four  horses  or  with  one,  provided  we  only  get  through  the 
dust  and  mud.  But  listen,  Marie,  I have  not  yet  given  you 
all  the  news,  I have  something  to  tell  that  will  be  very  agree- 
able.” 

“Then  tell  me  quickly,  Trude,  I love  to  hear  good  news.” 

“ My  child,  you  have  often  asked  me  if  I had  heard  any 
thing  of  Mr.  Ebenstreit,  and  if  I knew  what  had  become  of 
him.  In  your  goodness  you  have  even  gone  so  far  as  to  ob- 
serve that  you  have  been  hard  and  cruel  toward  him.” 

“ And  I have  been,  Trude,  I presumed  to  play  the  role  of 
fate  and  take  upon  myself  the  punishment  which  is  God’s 
prerogative  only.  True,  I had  bitter  cause  of  complaint 
against  him,  and  he  was  to  blame  for  my  unhappiness,  but  I 
am  not  free  from  blame  either,  and  he,  too,  had  just  cause  of 
complaint  against  me.  I had  stood  before  God’s  altar  with 
him — had,  at  least,  recognized  him  as  my  husband  before 
the  world,  and  yet  I have  hated  and  detested  him,  and  have 
fulfilled  none  of  the  duties  which  devolved  upon  me  from  the 
moment  of  our  marriage.” 

“Bub  you  were  never  married,  Marie.  You  did  not  utter 
a single  word  at  the  wedding?  You  did  not  pronounce  the 
‘Yes.’” 

“ Do  not  speak  so,  Trude ; we  deceive  our  conscience  with 
such  pretences,  and  only  persuade  ourselves  that  we  have  done 
no  wrong.  But  when  we  lie  sleepless  on  our  couches  during 
the  long  night,  as  I do,  then  the  slumbering  conscience 
awakens,  all  self-deception  vanishes,  and  we  see  things  as  they 
really  are.  Yes,  I know  that  I have  not  behaved  toward 
Ebenstreit  as  I ought  to  have  done,  and  I wish  I knew  where 


376 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


he  is,  so  that  I could  write  to  him  and  make  peace  with  him 
before — 

“Before  yon  marry,  you  would  say,  Marie?  Then,  listen  I 
I know  where  Mr.  Ebenstreit  is.  I also  know  that  he  is  doing 
well,  and  that  he,  too,  longs  to  see  and  speak  with  you. 
What  do  you  say  to  this  news,  my  child?’' 

“ I am  glad  to  hear  it,  Trude,  and  wish  to  see  Ebenstreit  as 
soon  as  possible,  for  all  things  are  uncertain  on  earth,  and  if 
he  came  later — ” 

“Yes,  if  he  came  later,”  said  Trude,  interrupting  her,  “our 
dear  professor  might  be  here,  and  then  we  would  not  have 
time  to  occupy  ourselves  with  any  one  else.  You  see  I 
thought  of  this  when  I saw  Mr.  Ebenstreit,  and  therefore — ” 

“ What?  You  have  seen  and  spoken  with  him?” 

“ Of  course  I have,  my  child.  From  whom  could  I have 
otherwise  learned  all  this?  He  entreated  me  to  procure  him 
an  interview  with  you.  I told  him  to  come  here  in  two  hours 
and  wait  outside,  promising  to  call  him  in  if  you  should 
permit  me  to  do  so.  The  two  hours  have  now  passed,  my 
child.  Will  you  see  him?” 

“Wait  a moment,”  said  Marie,  turning  pale.  “I  must 
first  collect  my  thoughts,  I must  first  nerve  myself.  You 
know  I am  very  weak,  Trude,  and — there ! I feel  that  thorn 
piercing  my  breast  again!  It  pains  fearfully!” 

She  closed  her  eyes,  threw  herself  back  in  the  chair,  and  lay 
there  quivering  and  groaning.  Trude  remained  standing  near 
the  door  tearfully,  regarding  the  pale,  attenuated  countenance,, 
which  was  still  her  ideal  of  all  that  was  lovely  and  beautiful. 

Slowly  Marie  opened  her  eyes  again.  “ You  may  bring  him 
in,  Trude,  but  we  will  be  composed  and  avoid  speaking  of 
the  past.” 

Marie  followed  Trude  with  a sorrowful  gaze,  as  she  walked 
noiselessly  to  the  door  and  out  into  the  hall.  “ The  good, 
faithful  old  nurse !”  murmured  she.  “ Does  she  really  believe 
that  I shall  recover,  or  is  she  only  trying  to  make  me  believe 
so?  I BO  long  to  live,  I so  long  for  a little  happiness  on  earth!” 


KECONCILIATION. 


377 


OHAPTEK  II. 

KECOKCILIATION. 

The  door  opened  again,  and  Trude  entered,  followed  by 
a tall,  thin  gentleman.  His  cheeks  were  hollow,  and  his  light 
hair  and  brown  beard  had  turned  gray,  and  yet  it  seemed  to 
Marie  that  he  was  younger  and  stronger  than  when  she  had 
last  seen  him,  two  years  before,  on  that  fearful  day  of  ven- 
geance. His  countenance  now  wore  a different,  a firmer  and 
more  energetic  expression,  and  the  eyes  that  had  formerly 
been  so  dim,  now  shone  with  unusual  lustre,  and  were  fastened 
on  Marie  with  an  expression  of  tender  sympathy. 

He  hurried  forward,  grasped  the  two  pale,  attenuated  hands 
which  Marie  had  extended  toward  him,  hid  his  countenance 
in  them  and  wept  aloud. 

For  a time  all  was  silent.  Trude  had  noiselessly  withdrawn 
to  the  furthest  corner  of  the  room,  where  she  stood,  half- 
concealed  by  the  bed-curtains,  endeavoring  to  suppress  her 
sobs,  that  her  darling  might  not  hear  them. 

“Marie,  my  friend,  my  benefactress,”  said  Ebenstreit,  after 
a long  pause,  I have  come  to  thank  you.  I came  here  from 
New  Orleans,  with  no  other  intention  and  no  other  wish  than 
the  one  that  is  now  being  gratified : to  kneel  before  you,  hold- 
ing your  hands  in  mine,  and  to  say:  I thank  you,  my  benefac- 
tress! You  have  made  a new  being  of  me;  you  have  driven 
out  the  demons,  and  prepared  the  altar  for  good  spirits.  I 
thank  you,  Marie,  for  through  you  I have  recovered  happi- 
ness, peace,  and  self-esteem ! Marie,  when  we  last  saw  each 
other,  I was  a sordid  being,  whose  soul  was  hardened  with 
egotism  and  vanity.  You  were  right  in  saying  there  was 
nothing  but  cold  calculation,  and  the  miserable  pride  of 
wealth,  in  the  place  where  the  warm  human  heart  should 
beat.  You  stepped  before  me  like  the  avenging  angel  with 
the  fiaming  sword.  In  your  sublime,  your  divine  anger,  you 


3T8 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


thrust  the  sword  so  deep  into  my  breast,  that  it  opened  like 
the  box  of  Pandora,  permitting  the  evil  spirits  and  wicked 
thoughts  to  escape,  and  leaving,  in  the  depths  of  the  heart 
that  had  been  purified  by  pain,  nothing  but  hope  and  love. 
When  I left  you  at  that  time  and  rushed  out  into  the  street, 
I was  blinded  and  maddened.  I determined  to  end  an  ex- 
istence I conceived  to  be  worthless  and  disgraced.  But  the 
hand  of  a friend  held  me  back,  the  voice  of  a friend  consoled 
me ; and  then,  when  I was  again  capable  of  thought,  I found 
that  these  words  were  engraven  in  my  heart  and  soul,  in 
cliaracters  of  living  fiame:  ‘Marie  shall  learn  to  esteem  me,  I 
will  make  of  myself  a new  man,  and  then  Marie  will  not  des- 
pise me.  ’ These  words  have  gone  before  me  on  the  rough 
path,  and  through  the  darkness  of  my  life,  like  a pillar  of 
flame.  It  was  my  sun  and  my  star.  I looked  up  to  it  as  the 
mariner  looks  at  his  guiding  compass  when  tossed  about  on 
the  wide  ocean.  This  pillar  of  flame  has  at  last  led  me  back 
to  the  avenging  angel,  whom  I now  entreat  to  become  an 
angel  of  reconciliation.  I entreat  you,  Marie,  forgive  me  for 
the  evil  I have  done  you,  forgive  me  for  the  unhappiness  I 
have  caused  you,  and  let  me  try  to  atone  for  the  past!” 

Marie  had  at  first  listened  to  him  with  astonishment,  and 
then  her  features  had  gradually  assumed  an  expression  of  deep 
emotion.  Her  purple  lips  had  been  tightly  compressed,  and 
the  tears  which  had  gathered  in  her  large  eyes  were  slowly 
gliding  down  over  the  cheeks  on  which  the  ominous  roses  were 
once  more  burning  brightly.  Now,  when  Ebenstreit  en- 
treated her  to  forgive  him,  when  she  saw  kneeling  in  the  dust 
before  her  the  man  whose  image  had  stood  before  her  con- 
science for  the  past  two  years  as  an  eternal  reproach,  and  as  a 
threatening  accusation,  a cry  of  pain  escaped  her  heaving 
breast.  She  arose  from  her  arm-chair,  and  stretched  out  her 
hands  toward  heaven. 

“ Too  much,  too  much,  0 God !”  she  cried,  in  loud  and 
trembling  tones.  “ Instead  of  passing  judgment  on  the  sin- 
ner, you  show  mercy!  All  pride  and  arrogance  have  vanished 


RECONCILIATION. 


379 


from  my  soul,  and  I bow  myself  humbly  before  Thee  and  be- 
fore this  man,  whom  I have  wronged  and  insulted !’ 

And  before  Ebenstreit — who  had  arisen  when  he  saw  Marie 
rise  from  her  chair  in  such  great  agitation — could  prevent 
it,  Marie  had  fallen  on  her  knees  before  him,  and  raised  her 
folded  hands,  imploringly. 

“ Ebenstreit,  forgive  me,  I entreat  you ! I have  wronged 
and  insulted  you,  have  lived  at  your  side  in  hatred  and  anger, 
instead  of  striving  to  be  a blessing  to  you — instead  of  en- 
deavoring to  seek  out  with  you  the  path  of  goodness  and  jus- 
tice from  which  we  had  both  wandered  so  far.  But  look  at 
me.  Ebenstreit!  behold  what  these  years  of  remorse  have 
made  of  me — behold  her  who  was  once  the  proud  tyrant  who 
presumed  to  command,  but  has  now  become  a poor  penitent 
who  humbly  begs  forgiveness.  Speak,  say  that  you  forgive 
me!  No,  do  not  attempt  to  raise  me  up!  Let  me  remain  on 
my  knees  until  you  take  pity  on  me  in  your  magnanimity — 
until  you  have  uttered  the  words  for  which  my  soul 
thirsts.’’ 

‘‘Well,  then,  Marie,”  sobbed  Ebenstreit,  his  countenance 
flooded  with  tears,  “ I will  do  your  will.  Marie,  I forgive  you 
with  my  whole  soul — forgive  you  for  all  my  sufferings  and 
tears,  and  tell  you  that  out  of  these  sufferings  consolations, 
and  out  of  these  tears  hopes,  have  blossomed.  God  bless, 
protect,  and  reward  you,  my  benefactress,  my  friend!” 

With  folded  hands,  and  in  breathless  suspense,  she  listened 
to  his  words,  and  a joyous  smile  gradually  illumined  her 
countenance. 

“I  thank  you,  my  friend;  I thank  you,”  she  murmured,  in 
low  tones ; and  lightly  and  airily,  as  though  borne  up  by  her 
inward  exaltation,  she  arose  and  stood  before  Ebenstreit,  a 
radiant  smile  on  her  lips. 

“Do  not  weep,  my  friend,”  she  said,  “all  sorrow  and  sad- 
ness are  past,  and  lie  behind  us.  Let  us  rejoice  in  the  good 
fortune  that  brings  us  together  once  more  for  a short  time, 
aiter  our  long  separation  and  estrangement.  You  shall  nar- 
25 


380 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


rate  the  history  of  your  life  during  this  period,  and  tell  me 
where  and  how  you  have  lived  and  struggled." 

“No,"  he  said,  tenderly,  “let  me  first  hear  your  history." 

“My  friend,"  she  replied,  smiling,  as  she  slowly  seated  her- 
self in  the  arm-chair,  “ look  at  this  table,  look  at  these  poor 
fiowers  made  out  of  cloth,  wire,  and  water-colors.  These 
lilies  and  violets  are  without  lustre  and  fragrance.  Such  has 
been  my  life.  Life  had  no  roses  for  me ; but  I made  roses  for 
others,  and  I lived  because  one  heavenly  flower  blossomed  in 
my  life — I lived  because  this  one  flower  still  shed  its  fragrance 
in  my  heart.  This  is  the  hope  of  seeing  my  beloved  once 
more! 

“ Do  not  ask  me  to  tell  you  more ; you  will  soon  see  and 
learn  all;  and  I know  you  will  rejoice  in  my  happiness  when 
my  hope  becomes  beautiful,  blissful  reality!" 

“I  will,  indeed,"  said  Ebenstreit,  tenderly,  “for  your  hap- 
piness has  been  my  constant  prayer  since  our  separation ; and 
not  until  I see  you  united  to  the  noble  man  from  whom  I so 
cruelly  and  heartlessly  separated  you — not  until  then  will  I 
have  atoned  for  my  crime,  and  I conceive  of  the  possibility  of 
a peaceful  and  happy  future  for  myself." 

She  extended  her  hand  and  smiled.  But  this  smile  was  so 
touching,  so  full  of  sadness,  that  it  moved  Ebenstreit  more 
profoundly  than  lamentations  or  despairing  wails  could  have 
done. 

“ Tell  me  of  your  life,"  said  Marie,  in  a soft  voice.  “Seat 
yourself  at  my  side,  and  tell  me  where  you  have  been  and  how 
you  have  lived." 

lie  seated  himself  as  she  had  directed.  Old  Trude  came 
forward  from  the  background,  and  listened  eagerly  to  Eben- 
streit’s  words. 

“ I cannot  illustrate  my  history  as  you  did  yours  when  yon 
pointed  to  these  flowers,"  he  said,  smiling.  “In  order  to  do 
this  I should  have  to  show  you  forests  felled  by  the  axe,  fields 
made  fruitful,  rivers  dammed  up,  and  huts  and  barns  erected 
alter  hard  toil.  When  I rushed  from  your  presence,  in  mad 


KECONCILIATION. 


381 


desperation,  I met  the  banker  Splittgerber  on  the  sidewalk. 
He  had  been  standing  at  the  door,  awaiting  me.  I endeavored 
to  tear  myself  from  his  grasp,  but  he  held  me  firmly.  I cried 
out  that  I wanted  peace,  the  peace  of  the  grave,  but  he  only 
held  me  the  more  firmly,  drew  me  away  with  irresistible  force, 
raised  me  like  a child,  and  placed  me  in  his  carriage,  which 
then  drove  rapidly  to  the  densest  part  of  the  zoological  gar- 
den. I was  wild  with  rage,  and  endeavored  to  jump  out  of 
the  carriage.  But  on  the  side  on  which  I sat,  ths  carriage 
door  was  not  provided  with  a handle,  and  I found  it  impossi- 
ble to  open  it.  I endeavored  to  pass  Splittgerber  and  get  out 
at  the  other,  door,  and  cried:  ‘Let  me  out!  No  one  shall 
compel  me  to  live ! I will  die,  I must  die !’  But  the  old  man 
held  me  with  an  iron  grasp,  and  pressed  me  down  on  my  seat 
again.  A loud  and  terrible  voice  resounded  in  my  ear,  like 
the  trumpet  of  the  day  of  judgment,  and  to  this  hour  I have 
not  been  able  to  convince  myself  that  it  was  no  other  than  the 
voice  of  good  old  Splittgerber.  This  te.'rible  voice  uttered 
these  words:  ‘You  have  no  right  to  die,  for  you  have  not  yet 
lived.  First  go  and  learn  to  live,  in  order  to  deserve  death!’ 
I was,  however,  completely  overcome  by  these  fearful  words, 
and  sank  back  in  a state  of  insensibility.'' 

“ ‘You  have  no  right  to  die,  for  you  have  not  yet  lived,’ '' 
repeated  Marie,  in  a low  voice.  “ Have  I then  lived,  and  is 
it  for  this  reason  that — " she  shuddered  and  interrupted  her- 
self: “Go  on,  my  friend — what  happened  further?" 

“ Of  what  further  occurred  I have  no  knowledge.  I have 
a vague  remembrance  that  I was  like  a departed  soul,  and  fiew 
about  from  place  to  place  through  tho  universe,  seeking  a 
home  and  an  asylum  everywhere,  and  finding  none.  I so- 
journed in  hell  for  a long  time,  and  suffered  all  the  tortures 
of  the  damned.  I lay  stretched  on  the  rack  like  Prometheus, 
a vulture  feeding  on  my  vitals,  and  cried  out  vainly  for 
mercy.  When  my  wandering  soul  again  returned  to  earth 
and  to  its  miserable  tenement — when  I awakened  to  conscious- 
ness, they  told  me  that  I had  been  ill  and  delirious  for  a long 


382 


OOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


time.  Good  old  Splittgerber  had  nursed  me  like  a father, 
and,  when  I recovered,  made  me  the  most  brilliant  offers. 
Among  many  other  similar  propositions,  I was  to  become  his 
partner,  and  establish  a branch  house  in  New  York.  I re- 
jected all ; I could  hear  nothing  but  the  trumpet-tones  of  that 
voice,  crying:  ‘You  have  no  right  to  die,  for  you  have  not 
yet  lived.  Go  and  learn  to  live,  in  order  to  deserve  to  die!^ 
I wished  to  deserve  to  die ; that  was  my  only  thought,  and  no 
one  should  help  me  in  achieving  this  end.  I wished  to  ac- 
complish this  alone,  entirely  unaided!  After  having  con- 
verted the  paltry  remnants  of  my  property  into  money,  I 
suddenly  took  my  departure  without  telling  any  one  where  I 
was  going.  I was  wearied  of  the  Old  World,  and  turned  my 
steps  toward  the  New.  I longed  to  be  doing  and  struggling. 
I bought  a piece  of  land  in  America,  large  enough  to  make 
a little  duchy  in  Germany.  I hired  several  laborers,  im- 
migrants in  whose  countenances  sullen  despair  was  depicted, 
and  with  them  I began  my  work ; and  a vast,  gigantic  work 
it  was.  A morass  and  a dense  forest  were  to  be  converted 
into  fruitful  fields.  What  the  Titans  of  mythology  could  per- 
haps not  have  accomplished,  was  achieved  by  poor  mortals  to 
whom  despair  gave  courage,  and  defiance  of  misfortune  super- 
human strength.  We  worked  hard,  Marie,  but  our  labors 
were  blessed ; we  had  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  they 
were  not  in  vain,  and  of  seeing  them  productive  of  good  re-  ^ 
suits.  The  forest  and  morass  I then  bought  have  now  been 
converted  into  a splendid  farm,  on  which  contented  laborers 
live  in  cleanly  cottages,  rejoicing  in  the  rewards  of  diligence. 
In  the  midst  of  this  settlement  lies  my  own  house,  a simple 
log-house,  but  yet  a sufficiently  comfortable  dwelling  for  a 
laborer  like  myself.  Over  the  door  stands  the  following  in- 
scription: ‘Learn  to  work,  that  you  may  enjoy  life,’  and  or 
the  wall  of  my  humble  parlor  hangs  a board  on  which  is 
written:  ‘Money  is  temptation,  work  is  salvation.  True 
riches  are,  a good  heart  and  the  joyousness  resulting  from 
labor.’*' 


RECONCILIATION. 


383 


Yon  are  a good,  a noble  man,*’  whispered  Marie,  regard- 
ing him  earnestly.  “ I thank  yon  for  having  come,  I rejoice 
in  yonr  retnrn.” 

“I  have  not  retnrned  to  remain,”  said  Ebenstreit,  pressing 
her  hand  to  his  lips.  “ I only  retnrned  to  see  yon,  Marie, 
and  to  render  an  acconnt  to  Heaven,  throngh  the  avenging 
angel,  whose  flaming  sword  drove  me  from  my  sins.  Yon  see, 
Marie,  there  is  something  of  my  former  accnrsed  sordidness 
in  me  still ; I dare  to  speak  of  acconnts  even  to  God  and  to 
yon,  as  if  the  sonl’s  bnrden  of  debt  conld  ever  be  cancelled! 
No,  while  I live  I will  be  yonr  debtor. — And  yonr  debtor,  too, 
Trnde,”  said  he,  tnrning,  with  a smile,  to  the  old  woman, 
who  was  regarding  him  wonderingly. 

“ I’m  snre  I don’t  know  how  that  can  be,”  said  she,  thonght- 
fnlly;  “yon  have  received  nothing  from  me  bntabnse;  that 
however  yon  certainly  still  owe  me.  If  yon  propose  to  retnrn 
this  now,  and  call  me  a short-sighted  fool,  and  an  abom- 
inable person,  as  I have  so  often  called  yon,  yon  will  be  per- 
fectly jnstiflable  in  doing  so.  I mnst  say  that  yon  have  the 
right,  and  I am  glad  that  I am  compelled  to  say  so.  Yon 
have  become  a good  man,  Mr.  Ebenstreit,  and  the  good  Lord 
himself  will  rejoice  over  yon,  for  it  is  written  in  the  Bible: 
‘When  the  nnjnst  man  retnrns  to  God  there  is  more  joy  over 
him  in  heaven  than  over  a hnndred  jnst  men.  ’ Therefore, 
my  dear  Mr.  Ebenstreit,  pay  me  back  for  all  my  abnse,  and 
then  give  me  yonr  hand  and  say:  ‘Trnde,  we  now  owe  each 
other  nothing  more,  and  after  all  yon  may  be  a very  good  old 
woman,  whose  heart  is  in  the  right  place,  and — her  month 
too!’” 

Ebenstreit  extended  his  hand,  with  a kindly  smile.  “ Let 
ns  shake  hands ; the  abnse  yon  shall,  however,  not  have.  I am 
yonr  debtor  in  a higher  and  better  sense;  your  brave  and 
resolute  countenance  was  often  before  me,  and  at  times,  when 
a task  seemed  almost  impossible,  I seemed  to  hear  a voice  at 
my  side,  saying:  ‘Work,  work  on!  Ransom  your  soul  with 
the  sweat  that  pours  from  yonr  brow,  you  soul-seller,  for 


384 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


otherwise  old  Trude  will  give  you  no  peace,  either  on  earth 
or  in  heaven!  Work,  work  on!  Earn  your  bread  by  the 
sweat  of  your  brow,  otherwise  you  can  never  enter  the  king- 
dom of  heaven,  you  soul-seller!’  You  will  remember  that 
this  was  the  only  title  you  accorded  me  in  former  days?” 

“Well,  Mr.  Ebenstreit,  I had  others  for  you,  to  be  sure,” 
said  the  old  woman,  blushing,  “ but  that  was  the  main  title 
on  account  of  the  five  hundred  dollars  that — ” 

“Be  still!”  interrupted  Marie,  as  she  slowly  arose,  and 
leaned  forward  in  a listening  attitude.  “ Did  you  hear  noth- 
ing, Trude?” 

“No,  my  darling.  What  could  I have  heard?” 

“ A carriage  stopped  before  the  door,  and  my  heart  suddenly 
ceased  to  beat,  as  if  expecting  a great  joy  or  a great  sorrow. 
I seemed  to  hear  steps  in  the  passage.  Yes,  I recognize  this 
step — it  is  his;  he — be  still!  do  you  hear  nothing?” 

They  all  listened  for  a moment  in  breathless  suspense. 
“Yes,  I seem  to  hear  some  one  walking  in  the  outer  hall,” 
murmured  the  old  woman.  “ Let  me  go  and  see  whether — ” 

“ Some  one  is  knocking,”  cried  Marie.  “ Trude,  some  one 
is — ” 

“Be  composed,  my  darling,  be  composed,”  said  Trude,  in 
soothing  tones;  “if  you  excite  yourself  so  much,  it  will  be 
injurious.  Some  one  knocks  again,  and — ” 

“Trude,  be  merciful!”  cried  Marie.  “Go  and  open  the 
door.  Do  not  let  me  wait ; I believe  I have  but  a little  while 
longer  to  live,  and  I cannot  wait!  Go!” 

Trude  had  hurried  to  the  door,  and  opened  it.  She 
started,  waved  her  hand,  closed  the  door  again,  and  turned  to 
Marie,  who  stood  erect,  in  breathless  suspense. 

“Marie,”  said  she,  vainly  endeavoring  to  speak  with  com- 
posure, “ there  certainly  is  some  one  at  the  door,  who  desires 
to  speak  with  me,  but  it  is  no  stranger;  perhaps  he  wishes  to 
order  some  fiowers.  I will  go  and  ask  him.” 

She  was  about  to  open  tlie  door  again,  but  Marie  ran  for- 
ward and  held  her  back.  “ You  are  deceiving  me,  Trude. 


GRIM  DEATH. 


385 


You  well  know  who  it  is,  and  I know  too.  My  heart  tells  me 
it  is  he!  Philip!  my  Philip!  Come  to  me,  Philip!” 

“ Marie!”  cried  a loud,  manly  voice  from  the  outside.  The 
door  was  hastily  thrown  open,  and  he  rushed  in,  with  extended 
arms.  “Marie!  where  are  you,  Marie!” 

She  uttered  a loud,  piercing  cry  of  joy,  and  flew  to  her 
lover’s  heart.  “My  Philip!  My  beloved!  God  bless  you 
for  having  come!” 

“My  Marie,  my  darling!”  murmured  he,  passionately. 
“ God  bless  you  for  having  called  me!*' 


CHAPTEK  III. 

GRIM  DEATH. 

They  held  each  other  firmly  embraced,  heart  to  heart.  All 
sorrow  and  sadness  were  forgotten ; they  were  oblivious  of  the 
whole  world,  and  of  all  that  was  going  on  around  them. 
They  did  not  see  old  Trude  standing  near  by,  with  folded 
hands,  her  face  radiant  with  delight;  they  did  not  see  her 
follow  Mr.  Ebenstreit,  who  had  glided  noiselessly  out  of  the 
room.  They  did  not  hear  the  door  creak  on  its  hinges,  as  she 
closed  it  behind  her,  and  left  them  alone  and  unobserved  in 
the  silent  chamber.  And,  though  the  two  had  remained, 
though  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  eyes  had  been  fastened  on 
them  inquiringly,  what  would  they  have  cared?  They  would, 
nevertheless,  have  still  been  alone  with  love,  with  happiness, 
and  with  the  joy  of  reunion. 

Her  head  still  rested  on  his  breast ; he  still  pressed  her  to 
his  heart.  “ Marie,  the  dream  of  my  whole  life  is  now  ful- 
filled ; I hold  you  in  my  arms,  you  are  mine ! The  restless 
wanderer  has  at  last  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  promised 
land,  and  love  and  peace  bid  him  welcome.” 

“Yes,  my  Philip,”  she  murmured,  softly,  “love  and  peace 
bid  him  welcome.  Pain  has  left  us  for  evermore,  and  we 
shall  be  happy!” 


386 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


“ Yes,  happy,  Marie ! Look  up,  darliug,  that  I may  read 
love  in  your  dear  eyes!” 

With  his  hand  he  attempted  to  raise  her  head,  but  she  only 
pressed  it  the  more  firmly  to  his  breast. 

“No,  Philip,  let  my  head  still  rest  on  your  bosom;  let  me 
dream  on  for  a little  while.” 

“ Marie,  I have  yearned  to  see  these  dear  eyes  for  two  long 
years;  look  up,  my  darling!” 

“Not  yet,  Philip,”  she  whispered,  entwining  her  arms 
more  closely  around  her  lover,  her  countenance  still  hid  in  his 
bosom.  “Let  me  first  tell  you  something,  Philip!  I have 
been  ill,  very  ill,  and  it  was  thought  I would  die.  If  you 
should  find  me  a little  changed,  a little  pale,  my  beloved,  it 
will  only  be  because  I have  not  yet  quite  recovered,  but  am 
only  steadily  improving.  Kemember  this,  and  do  not  be 
alarmed.  Look  at  me!  Welcome,  welcome,  my  Philip!” 

When  she  raised  her  head,  a radiant  expression  of  happiness 
rested  on  her  features;  her  lips  were  crimson,  her  eyes  shone 
lustrously,  and  the  death-roses  on  her  cheeks  burned  brightly. 
Death  had,  perhaps,  been  touched  by  the  supreme  happiness 
of  these  two  beings,  who  had  been  wandering  under  a thunder- 
cloud of  sorrow  for  long  years,  and  who  now  fondly  believed 
that  they  had  at  last  found  a refuge  from  the  storms  of  life, 
and  a balsam  for  all  pain.  Death,  who  comes  from  God,  had, 
perhaps,  been  moved  with  divine  pity,  and  had  lain  concealed 
behind  these  fiushed  cheeks  and  crimson  lips,  permitting  jo^ 
to  illumine  Marie’s  countenance  with  a last  golden  ray  of  th( 
setting  sun,  and  to  give  her  for  a brief  moment  the  appear 
ance  of  health  and  strength. 

Philip,  at  least,  did  not  see  the  grim  messenger;  he  wa^ 
deceived  by  these  death-roses,  by  this  ray  of  sunshine.  He 
had  expected  to  find  Marie  in  a much  worse  condition. 
Gedicke’s  letter  had  carried  the  conviction  to  his  heart  that 
he  would  fmd  her  in  a hopeless,  in  a dying  condition,  and 
that  nothing  buoyed  her  up,  and  withheld  her  from  the 
clutches  of  the  grave,  but  her  longing  to  see  him  once  more. 


GRIM  DEATH. 


387 


I'Jow  she  stood  before  him  with  rosy  cheeks,  with  a bright 
smile  on  her  lips,  and  with  eyes  that  sparkled  with  joy. 

“ Marie,  my  jewel,  my  longed-for  happiness,  how  lovely, 
how  beautiful  you  are!  Why  speak  of  illness  and  of  pale 
cheeks!  I see  nothing  of  all  this;  I see  you  healthy,  happy, 
and  beautiful — as  beautiful  as  when  I often  saw  you  in  my 
dreams  in  the  long  nights  of  the  past — as  beautiful  as  I have 
ever  conceived  you  to  be  when  standing  before  the  Madonnas 
of  Raphael  and  Giulio  Romano  in  Rome  and  Florence.  ‘Gaze 
at  me  with  your  dark  eyes,’  I said  to  them.  ‘You  would  ask 
me  whether  I admire  and  adore  you.  True,  you  are  lovely, 
but  I know  a Marie  who  is  lovelier  and  purer  than  you  all ! I 
know  a Marie  whose  eyes  are  radiant  with  the  light  of  woman- 
hood, purity,  and  virtue.  She  is  not  so  coquettish  as  you  are, 
Maria  della  Ledia ; her  eyes  are  not  so  dreamy  as  yours,  Maria 
di  Fuligno.  But  they  are  resplendent  with  holy  love,  and 
noble  thoughts  dwell  on  her  chaste  brow!’  And  now  I have 
thee,  and  now  will  I hold  thee,  my  Marie,  and  nothing  can 
separate  us  more!’' 

“ No,”  she  said,  thoughtfully,  “ nothing  henceforth  can  now 
separate  us  but  death!” 

“ Death  has  nothing  to  do  with  us,  my  darling.  We  shall 
live,  and  live  a joyous,  happy  life!” 

“Yes,  live,  live!”  she  cried,  in  such  longing,  passionate 
tones,  and  with  so  sad  an  expression  of  countenance,  that 
Moritz’s  heart  quaked.  It  seemed  to  him  as  though  a string 
had  broken  on  the  harp  on  which  she  had  just  begun  to  play 
the  joyous  song  of  life  and  of  love,  and  at  this  moment  he 
saw  grim  death  peering  forth  from  behind  the  roses  on  her 
cheeks,  and  the  smile  on  her  crimson  lips. 

“ Come,  my  darling,  let  us  be  seated.  There  is  your 
throne,  and  here  at  your  feet  lies  he  who  adores  you,  looking 
up  at  his  Madonna,  at  his  Marie,  with  ecstacy.” 

He  bore  her  tenderly  to  the  arm-chair,  and  then  seated 
himself  at  her  feet.  He  looked  up  at  her  with  an  expression 
of  deep  devotion,  his  folded  hands  resting  on  her  lap.  She 


388 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


bowed  down  over  him  and  stroked  with  her  pale  little  hand 
his  black,  curly  hair,  and  the  broad  forehead  she  had  once 
seen  so  gloomy  and  clouded,  and  which  was  now  as  clear  and 
serene  as  the  heaven  in  her  own  breast. 

‘‘  I have  thee  at  last  once  more,  thou  star  of  my  life ! When 
I regard  thee,  I feel  that  life  is,  indeed,  beautiful,  and  that 
one  hour  of  bliss  is  not  too  dearly  purchased  with  long  years 
of  suffering  and  want.  We  paid  dearly,  Philip,  but  now  we 
have  the  longed-for  happiness.  We  have  it  and  will  hold  it 
fast;  nothing  on  earth  shall  tear  it  from  us?” 

“No,  nothing  on  earth,  my  beloved!  Like  Odysseus,  I 
have  now  returned  from  my  wanderings  through  life,  and 
here  I lie  at  the  feet  of  my  Penelopeia;  like  him,  I have 
driven  off  the  suitors  who  aspired  to  the  favor  of  my  fair  one. 
Was  it  not  a suitor,  who  slipped  out  at  the  door  when  I 
entered?” 

“A  suitor  of  the  past,”  replied  Marie,  smiling.  “Did  you 
not  recognize  him?” 

“ Have  I ever  known  him?  But  what  do  we  care,  now  that 
he  has  gone ! I am  not  compelled  to  drive  him  off,  nor  yet 
to  hang  old  Trude  as  a go-between,  as  Odysseus  did  the  old 
woman  of  whom  Homer  tells  us.” 

Philip  and  Marie  both  laughed.  It  was  the  innocent  child- 
like laughter  with  which  happiness  illumines  even  the  gravest 
countenances,  and  which  permits  those  who  have  been  sorely 
tried,  and  have  suffered  greatly,  to  find  the  innocence  of 
youth  and  the  smile  of  childhood  again  on  the  threshold  of 
paradise  regained. 

“ Marie,  how  beautiful  you  are  when  you  laugh ! Then  it 
seems  as  though  all  these  years  of  sorrow  had  not  been — as 
though  we  had  only  been  dreaming,  and  now  awake  to  find 
that  we  are  again  in  the  little  room  under  the  roof.  You 
are  once  more  my  charming  young  scholar,  and  Professor 
Moritz  has  just  come  to  give  Miss  von  Leuthen  a lesson  in  the 
Italian  language.  Yes,  that  is  it,  we  are  still  the  same;  and 
eee!  there  lie  the  flowers  on  your  table,  just  as  they  were  when 


GRIM  DEATH. 


389 


old  Trude  conducted  me  to  your  room  to  give  you  your  first 
lesson.” 

He  took  a handful  of  fiowers  from  the  table  and  held  them 
between  his  folded  hands.  “You  dear  fiowers!  She  is  your 
god  and  your  goddess  I Like  God  she  made  you  of  nothing, 
and,  like  the  goddess  Flora,  she  strews  you  over  the  pathway 
of  humanity;  but  to-day  you  shall  receive  the  most  glorious 
reward  for  your  existence — to-day  you  shall  adorn  her,  my 
fair  Flora!” 

He  sprang  up,  seized  whole  handfuls  of  violets,  pinks, 
lilies,  and  forget-me-nots,  and  strewed  them  over  Marie’s  head, 
in  her  lap,  and  all  over  and  about  her. 

“ Let  me  strew  your  path  with  flowers  for  the  future,  my 
darling.  May  your  tender  little  feet  never  more  be  wounded 
by  the  sharp  stones!  may  you  never  again  be  compelled  to 
journey  over  rough  roads!  Flowers  shall  spring  up  beneath 
your  footsteps,  and  I will  be  the  gardener  who  cultivates 
them.” 

“ You  are  my  heaven-flower  yourself,  my  imperial  lily,”  said 
she,  extending  her  hands.  He  took  them  in  his,  pressed 
them  to  his  lips,  and  then  resumed  his  former  seat  at  her  feet. 

“ How  handsome  you  are,  Philip,  and  how  strong  you  look, 
tanned  by  the  sun  of  Italy  and  steeled  by  the  combat  with 
life ! Misfortune  has  made  a hero  of  you,  my  beloved.  You 
are  taller  and  prouder  than  you  were.” 

“And  are  you  not  a heroine,  Marie,  a victorious  heroine?” 

“A  victorious  heroine!”  she  said,  sadly.  “A  heroine  who 
is  struggling  with  death ! Do  not  look  at  me  with  such  con» 
sternation,  Philip — I am  well.  It  is  only  that  joy  and  sur- 
prise have  made  me  feel  a little  weak.  You  do  not  find  that 
I look  ill,  and  therefore  I am  not  ill ; you  say  I will  recover, 
and  therefore  I will  recover.  Tell  me  once  more  that  I am 
not  ill,  that  I will  recover!” 

“ You  will  recover;  you  will  bloom  again  in  happiness  and 

joy." 

“ You  say  these  words  in  a sad  voice,  as  though  you  did  not 


390 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


believe  them  yourself ! But  I will  not  die ; no,  I will  not ! 1 

am  too  young ; I have  not  lived  long  enough.  Life  still  owel 
me  so  much  happiness.  I will  not  die!  I will  live — live!’* 

She  uttered  this  in  loud  tones  of  anguish,  as  though  Life 
were  an  armed  warrior  to  whom  she  appealed  to  defend  her 
against  Death,  who  was  approaching  her  with  a murderous 
dagger  in  his  bony  hand.  But  Life  had  no  longer  a weapon 
with  which  to  defend  her;  it  timidly  recoiled  before  the  king 
who  is  mightier  than  the  King  of  Life,  and  whose  sceptre  is 
a scythe  with  which  he  mows  down  humanity  as  the  reaper 
harvests  the  grain  of  the  fields. 

“Philip,  my  Philip,”  cried  Marie,  her  countenance  quiver- 
ing with  pain,  “ remain  with  me,  my  beloved ! It  is  growing 
so  dark,  and — There,  how  my  breast  pains  me  again ! Alas, 
you  have  scattered  fiowers  at  my  feet,  but  the  thorns  have 
remained  in  my  heart!  And  they  pain  so  terribly!  It  is 
growing  dark — dark! — Trude!” 

The  old  woman,  who  had  been  waiting  at  the  threshold 
with  the  humility  of  a faithful  dog,  threw  the  door  open  and 
rushed  forward  to  her  darling,  who  lay  in  the  arm-chair,  with 
closed  eyes,  pale  and  motionless,  her  head  resting  on  Moritz’s 
arm. 

“Trude,  call  the  physician!”  cried  he,  in  dismay.  “Eun 
for  assistance!  Eun!  run!  She  must  not  die!  She  shall 
not  leave  me!  0 God,  Thou  canst  not  desire  to  tear  her 
from  me ! Thou  permittedst  me  to  hear  her  voice  when  in 
Eome,  when  widely  separated  from  her,  and  I answered  this 
call  and  flew  here  on  the  wings  of  the  wind.  It  cannot  be 
Thy  will  that  I am  to  be  surrounded  by  eternal  silence — that 
I am  never  more  to  hear  this  dear  voice ! — Help  me,  Trude ! 
Why  do  you  not  call  the  physician?” 

“It  is  useless,  dear  sir,  useless,”  whispered  Trude,  whose 
tears  were  still  fiowing  in  torrents.  “All  the  physicians  say 
that  her  case  is  hopeless;  they  told  me  that  this  would  occur, 
and  that  all  would  then  be  at  an  end.  But  perhaps  this  is 
only  a swoon;  perhaps  we  can  awaken  her  once  more.” 


GRIM  DEATH. 


391 


Was  it  the  strengthening  essence  with  which  Trnde  rubbed 
her  forehead,  the  strong  musk-drops  which  she  poured  be- 
tween Marie’s  parted  lips,  or  was  it  the  imploring  voice  in 
which  Moritz  called  her  name,  and  conjured  her  not  to  leave 
him? — Marie  opened  her  eyes  and  cast  a look  of  ineffable 
tenderness  at  the  pale,  horror-stricken  countenance  of  her 
lover,  who  was  again  kneeling  at  her  feet,  his  arms  clasped 
convulsively  around  her  person,  as  if  in  a last  despairing  effort 
to  withhold  her  from  the  King  of  Terrors,  who  had  already 
stretched  out  his  skeleton  arm  to  grasp  his  victim. 

“I  am  dying,  Philip!’'  murmured  Marie,  in  low  tones,  and 
her  voice  resounded  on  his  ear  like  the  last  expiring  notes  of 
an  ^olian  harp.  ‘‘  It  is  useless  to  deceive  you  longer ; the 
truth  is  evident,  and  we  must  both  bear  it  as  we  best 
may.” 

“Marie,  I cannot,  cannot  bear  it!”  he  sobbed,  burying  his 
countenance  in  her  lap.  “ God  is  merciful ; He  will  take  pity 
on  me,  on  my  agony,  on  my  love!  God  will  grant  you 
recovery!” 

“The  only  recovery  God  vouchsafes  me  is  at  hand,”  whis- 
pered Marie.  “ Recovery  is  death ! I have  felt  it  approach- 
ing for  many,  many  days — in  the  long,  fearful  nights  I have 
lain  awake  struggling  with  this  thought,  unable  to  compre- 
hend it,  and  doubting  God’s  mercy  and  goodness.  My  defiant 
heart  refused  to  submit  humbly  to  God’s  will,  and  still 
continued  to  entreat  a little  more  life,  a little  happiness,  of 
Him  who  is  inexorable,  and  upon  whose  ear  the  wail  of  man 
strikes  in  as  low  tones  as  the  last  breath  of  the  insect  we  tread 
under  foot.  I comprehended,  finally,  that  all  complaints 
were  useless — that  nothing  remained  but  to  submit,  to  hum- 
ble myself,  to  thank  God  for  each  hour  of  life  as  for  a gracious 
boon,  and  to  consider  each  ray  of  sunshine  shed  on  my  exist- 
ence as  a proof  of  His  goodness.  I have  conquered  myself ; 
my  stubborn  heart  has  been  softened,  and  no  longer  rebels 
against  the  hand  of  the  Almighty,  to  whom  men  are  as  worms, 
and  as  the  grain  of  sand  to  the  mighty  glacier  that  touches 


392 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


the  clouds.  You,  too,  must  be  gentle  and  submissive,  my 
Philip.  Learn  to  submit  to  the  eternal  laws  of  God!” 

“ No,  I cannot,”  said  he,  in  heart-rending  tones;  “ I cannot 
be  submissive.  My  heart  is  rebellious;  in  my  anguish  I could 
tear  it  from  my  breast  when  I see  you  suffer!” 

am  not  suffering,  Philip,”  said  she,  her  countenance 
radiant  with  a heavenly  smile.  “ All  pain  has  now  left  me, 
and  I feel  as  though  I floated  in  a rosy  cloud,  high  above  all 
earthly  sorrow.  From  this  height  I see  how  paltry  all  earthly 
sorrows  are,  and  how  little  they  deserve  a single  tear.  Here 
below,  all  is  paltry  and  insignificant — above,  all  is  great  and 
sublime.  Oh,  Philip,  how  sweet  it  will  be  to  meet  you  once 
more  up  there!  In  blissful  embrace,  our  spirits  will  soar 
from  star  to  star,  and  the  glories  of  all  worlds  and  the  mys- 
teries of  all  creations  will  be  made  manifest  to  us,  and  our 
life  will  be  bliss  and  joy  unending!  The  cloud  is  soaring 
higher  and  higher!  Philip,  I see  thee  no  longer!” 

“But  I see  thee,  my  darling,”  cried  Philip,  despairingly, 
as  he  clasped  her  sinking  head  between  his  hands,  and  covered 
it  with  tears  and  kisses.  “ Do  not  leave  me,  Marie;  stay  with 
me,  thou  sole  delight  of  my  life!  Do  not  leave  me  alone  in 
the  world.” 

His  imploring  voice  had  that  divine  power  which,  as  we  are 
told  by  the  Greeks,  breathed  life  into  stone,  and  transformed 
a cold,  marble  statue  into  a warm,  loving  woman.  His  im- 
ploring voice  recalled  the  spirit  of  the  loving  woman  to  the 
body  already  clasped  in  the  chilly  embrace  of  death. 

“You  shall  not  be  solitary,  Philip,”  she  murmured;  “it  is 
so  sad  to  have  to  struggle  alone  through  life.  I must  go, 
Philip,  but  you  shall  not  be  left  alone.” 

“But  I will  be  if  you  leave  me,  Marie;  therefore  stay! 
Oh,  stay!” 

“I  cannot,  Philip,”  gasped  Marie,  in  low  tones.  “You 
must  place  another  at  your  side!  Another  must  All  my 
place.  Hear  my  last  wish,  my  last  prayer,  Philip.  Take  a 
wife,  marry!” 


GRIM  DEATH. 


393 


“ Impossible,  Marie,  you  cannot  be  so  cruel  as  to  desire 
this.” 

“ I have  thought  of  this  a great  deal,  have  struggled  with 
my  own  heart,  and  am  now  convinced  that  you  must  do  so. 
You  must  have  a wife  at  your  side  who  loves  you.  Swear 
that  you  will  seek  such  a wife.  Swear  this,  and  accord  me  a 
last  joy  on  earth.” 

She  raised  her  hand  once  more,  and  her  dying  gaze  was 
fastened  on  him  imploringly.  He  could  not  resist  it;  he 
clasped  the  pale  fingers  in  his  quivering,  burning  hands,  and 
swore  that  he  would  do  as  she  bade  him. 

A faint  smile  flitted  over  her  countenance,  and  her  eyes 
sought  out  the  faithful  old  woman,  who  had  loved  her  like  a 
mother,  and  who  found  it  no  longer  necessary  to  conceal  her 
tears,  as  she  had  been  doing  for  many  months,  in  holy  and 
heroic  deception. 

“Trude,”  whispered  Marie,  “you  have  heard  his  vow,  and 
you  must  remind  him  of  it,  and  see  that  he  keeps  it,  and 
marries  within  the  year.  Kiss  me,  Trude,  and  swear  that 
you  will  do  so!” 

Old  Trude  had  no  other  words  than  her  tears,  no  other  vow 
than  the  kiss  which  her  trembling  lips  pressed  on  her  dar- 
ling’s brow,  already  covered  with  that  cold,  ominous  perspi- 
ration which  gathers,  like  the  morning  dew  of  another  world, 
on  the  countenances  of  those  who  stand  on  the  threshold  of 
the  grave,  and  is  symbolical  of  the  new  life  to  which  they  will 
awaken  on  high. 

“Philip,  my  beloved,  you  too  must  kiss  me!”  whispered 
Marie,  in  eager  tones,  “Kiss  me!  Hold  me  fast!  Drive 
death,  grim,  fearful  death,  away!” 

He  kissed  her,  entwined  his  arms  around  her,  and  pressed 
her  to  his  bosom.  Trude  stretched  out  her  arms  imploringly 
into  empty  space,  as  if  to  ward  off  “grim  death!” 

But  he  is  king  of  kings,  and  claims  as  his  own  all  who  live 
on  earth! 

Silence  reigned  in  the  little  chamber.  Holy  is  the  hour 


394 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


of  Separation — holy  the  moment  in  which  the  immortal  soul 
is  torn  from  its  earthly  ahode,  and  this  holy  moment  must  not 
be  desecrated  with  lamentations  and  tears! 

After  a long  interval,  the  heart-rending  cry  of  a man,  and 
the  low  wail  of  a woman  broke  in  upon  the  stillness. — Marie 
had  died,  but  a smile  still  rested  on  her  lips. 


CHAPTEE  IV. 

Goethe’s  return  from  rome. 

Goethe  has  returned ! Goethe  is  once  more  in  our  midst ! 
He  arrived  quite  unexpectedly  yesterday  evening,  repaired  at 
once  to  his  summer-house  in  the  park,  raised  the  little  draw- 
bridge, and  has  yet  seen  no  one ! 

This  was  the  intelligence  that  ran  like  wildfire  through  the 
good  city  of  Weimar  on  the  morning  of  the  nineteenth  of 
June,  1788,  exciting  joy  and  expectation  in  the  minds  of 
many,  and  perhaps  also  some  little  discontent  in  the  minds  of 
others.  All  were  anxious  to  see  the  poet  once  more,  who 
had  been  enthroned  in  Weimar  as  the  genius  of  gayety  and 
happiness,  and  who  had  taken  these  two  most  beautiful  ideals 
of  humanity  with  him  on  leaving  the  capital  of  Thuringia. 
Weimar  had  changed  greatly  since  Goethe’s  departure.  It 
had,  as  the  Duke  Charles  August  often  complained  to  his 
friends,  become  dull,  and  “ terribly  old  fogyish.’’  The  genial 
freedom  from  care  and  restraint,  and  the  poetic  enthusiasm 
and  exaltation  had  all  vanished  with  Goethe.  Weimar  lay 
slumbering  in  its  dullness  and  tranquillity  on  the  banks  of  the 
murmuring  Ilm,  and  the  staid  and  honest  burghers  of  the 
good  city  considered  it  a positive  blessing  that  this  restless 
spirit  had  departed.  The  court  was  also  very  quiet — so  quiet 
that  the  genial  Duchess  Amelia  could  no  longer  endure  it, 
and  was  preparing  to  journey  to  Italy  in  the  company  of  her 
friends,  Wieland  and  Herder,  to  indemnify  herself  under  the 


GOETHE’S  RETURN  FROM  ROME. 


395 


bright  skies  of  Italy,  and  in  the  midst  of  rare  works  of  art, 
for  the  dull  life  she  had  led  for  the  past  few  years. 

No  wonder  that  the  intelligence  of  Goethe’s  return  agitated 
the  little  city,  and  infused  a little  life  and  excitement  into 
slumbering  society ! 

Goethe’s  servant  had  appeared  at  the  ducal  palace  at  an 
early  hour  on  the  following  morning,  had  communicated  the 
glad  tidings  of  his  master’s  arrival  to  the  duke’s  chamberlain, 
and  had  begged  to  be  informed  at  what  hour  the  privy-coun- 
cillor would  be  permitted  to  pay  his  respects.  The  duke  had 
briefly  replied  that  he  would  send  the  privy-councillor  word ; 
nothing  more ! But  half  an  hour  later,  instead  of  sending 
word,  the  duke  quietly  left  his  palace,  crossed  the  Market 
Square  with  hasty  footsteps,  and  passed  on  through  the  streets, 
into  the  park,  and  along  its  shady  avenues  to  Goethe’s  little 
summer-house. 

The  bridge  was  raised,  but  the  Ilm  was  almost  completely 
dried  up  by  the  summer  heat,  and  but  a narrow,  shallow 
rivulet  flowed  in  the  midst  of  its  sandy  bed.  What  cared 
he,  the  genial  duke,  although  his  boots  and  Prussian  uniform 
should  become  somewhat  soiled  in  wading  across  to  the  little 
island?  He  had  not  come  to  pay  a visit  of  state,  but  only  to 
call  on  his  dear  friend  in  an  unceremonious  manner,  and  to 
give  him  a warm  embrace,  after  a long  separation.  There- 
fore, forward,  through  mud  and  water ! On  the  other  side 
lies  the  modest  little  house  of  his  cherished  friend ! Forward ! 

Goethe’s  servant  had  not  yet  returned  from  the  city;  no 
one  was  there  to  announce  the  duke,  and,  if  there  had  been, 
Charles  August  would  have  preferred  coming  unannounced 
into  his  friend’s  presence;  he  desired  to  surprise  him. 
Noiselessly  he  crept  up  the  stairway,  and  threw  the  door  open. 

‘^Welcome,  my  Wolf!  A thousand  welcomes!  To  my 
arms,  beloved  brother!’' 

“ His  highness  the  duke!  How  unexpected  an  honor!” 

Goethe  rose  hastily  from  the  sofa,  and  bowed  profoundly  to 
the  duke,  who  still  stood  before  him  with  extended  arms. 

26 


396 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


“And  in  this  manner  you  receive  your  friend,  Wolf? 
Truly,  I came  running  here  like  a lover  to  a rendezvous  with 
his  adored,  and  now  you  receive  me  with  a cold  greeting?” 

“ I beg  leave  to  assure  your  highness,  that  the  heart  of  your 
humble  servant  is  also  filled  with  joy,  in  beholding  his  dear 
master  once  more,  and  that  this  moment  reconciles  me  to  my 
Teturn,  and — ” 

“Wolf,  tell  me  are  you  playing  a comedy?  Are  you  only 
jesting,  or  has  your  sojourn  in  Eome  really  made  you  the  stiff 
and  courtly  old  fellow  you  appear  to  be?” 

“la  stiff  old  fellow?  I a courtly  old  fellow?”  asked 
Goethe,  with  sparkling  eyes;  and  now  he  was  again  the 
Goethe  with  the  Apollo  countenance,  as  he  had  been  in  Eome 
and  Castel  Gandolfo — once  more  the  poet  of  Italy,  and  no 
longer  the  privy-councillor  of  Weimar. 

As  the  friends  now  looked  at  each  other — as  the  duke’s 
merry  brown  eyes  encountered  Goethe’s  fiery,  passionate 
gaze — the  last  vestiges  of  the  privy-councillor  fell  from  the 
poet.  His  handsome  countenance  brightened,  and  with  a cry 
of  joy  he  sprang  forward,  threw  himself  into  the  duke’s  arms 
and  kissed  his  eyes  and  lips. 

“ May  God  forgive  me  if  I am  guilty  of  disrespect ! I had 
determined  to  return  home  as  a well-trained  and  respectable 
privy-councillor  and  courtier.  But  I am  not  to  blame  if  the 
sight  of  your  dear  countenance  scatters  all  my  good  resolu- 
tions to  the  winds.  Let  me  embrace,  let  me  kiss  you  once 
more,  my  dear  duke  and  friend !” 

And  he  did  so,  again  and  again,  with  great  ardor.  The 
duke’s  laughter  while  submitting  to  this  embrace  seemed  to 
be  only  assumed  in  order  to  conceal  his  emotion,  and  to  make 
his  friend  believe  that  the  tears  which  stood  in  his  eyes  had 
not  come  from  the  depths  of  his  heart,  but  were  only  the  con- 
sequence of  his  violent  laughter. 

“ I see  you  are  still  the  same  wild,  unaccountable  genius. 
Wolf!  You  are  as  capricious  as  a beautiful  woman,  and  as 
imperious  as  a tyrant!  You  are  still  the  same  Goethe!'* 


GOETHE’S  RETURN  FROM  ROME. 


397 


“ Not  at  all  times,  my  duke.  I have  determined  that  the 
feober-minded  world  here  in  Weimar,  shall  behold  in  me  a 
sober-minded  privy-councillor,  and  that  I will  give  no  further 
cause  of  offence  to  madame  the  Duchess  Louise,  and  all  other 
sensitive  souls,  by  my  wild  behavior.  But,  for  a quarter  of 
an  hour,  and  in  the  presence  of  my  dear  master,  I let  the 
mask  fall,  and  am  once  more  the  old  Goethe  or  the  young 
Goethe.  Your  Goethe,  my  duke  and  friend!’' 

“Thanks,  Wolf,  thanks!  I hardly  knew  what  to  make  of 
you,  and  was  quite  ill  at  ease  when  I saw  you  standing  before 
me  with  your  formal  manner  and  courtier  countenance.  I 
thought  to  myself,  ‘This  is  not  the  Goethe  you  expected  to 
see;  this  is  only  his  outward  form;  the  inner  man  has  re- 
mained in  Italy.  ’ ” 

“Alas!  that  such  should  be  the  case,  my  duke,  but  it  is 
so,”  sighed  Goethe.  “The  inner  man  has  not  yet  quite  re- 
turned ; only  after  a painful  struggle  will  it  be  able  to  tear 
itself  from  the  beautiful  home  of  art  and  poetry.  But  since 
I see  you,  my  dear  friend — since  I behold  your  brave,  hand- 
some countenance,  I feel  that  my  wounds  are  healing — that  I 
am  coming  home!  They  are  healing  under  your  loving 
glances,  and  I begin  to  rejoice  in  my  return,  and  to  consider 
^hat  I did  only  from  a sense  of  duty  as  a real  pleasure.” 

“Then  you  did  not  return  gladly.  Wolf?  It  was  reason, 
and  not  your  heart,  that  prompted  you  to  return!” 

“ It  was  reason  only,  my  duke — the  conviction  that  it  was 
necessary  for  my  well-being.  Do  not  be  angry  with  me  for 
saying  so,  but  in  this  hour  my  heart  must  be  laid  bare  to  my 
friend,  and  he  must  see  and  read  its  every  quivering  fibre. 
No,  my  duke,  my  heart  did  not  prompt  me  to  return.  I re- 
turned only  because  I recognized  the  necessity  of  so  doing,  if 
I hoped  to  accomplish  any  thing  great  and  beautiful.  I was 
compelled  to  fiee  from  Italy,  the  siren  in  whose  toils  I lay 
bound,  and  by  whom  my  being  was  about  to  be  divided,  mak- 
ing of  the  poet  that  I really  am,  or  at  least  can  become,  a 
talent-monster,  who  acquires  a certain  artistic  ability  in  many 


398 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


things,  without  attaining  to  perfection  in  any  one  of  them. 
Had  I remained  in  Italy,  I would  perhaps  at  last  have  been 
able  to  paint  a tolerably  good  aquarelle  picture,  and  to  make 
a passably  good  statue  according  to  all  the  rules  of  art,  and 
might  also  have  manufactured  dramas  and  poems  in  my 
hours  of  leisure;  but  I would  have  knocked  in  vain  at  the 
temple-gates  of  each  individual  art.  Not  one  of  them  would 
have  been  thrown  open  to  permit  me  to  enter,  as  the  elect, 
the  chosen ! At  the  door  of  each  temple  I would  have  been 
turned  away,  and  advised  to  apply  for  my  reward  at  the  abode 
of  another  art,  and  thus  I would  be  considered  a worthy  ap- 
plicant nowhere ! He  who  desires  to  accomplish  something 
great  and  complete,  must  bend  all  the  energies  of  his  soul  to 
the  accomplishment  of  one  end.  He  must  not  diffuse  his  tal- 
ents, but  must  concentrate  them  in  the  attainment  of  one 
object.  He  must  strive  upward;  in  the  spirit  he  must  see 
before  him  a summit  to  which  he  is  determined  to  climb, 
removing  all  obstacles  that  may  retard  his  progress.  This 
conviction  forces  itself  upon  me,  and  I also  became  convinced 
that  I possessed  only  one  talent — that  is,  but  one  great  tal- 
ent— that  could  carry  me  to  the  summit,  and  this  talent  is 
my  talent  of  poetry.  All  others  are  but  secondary ; and  when 
I take  this  view  of  myself,  I am  reminded  of  the  magnificent 
marble  group  in  Eome,  ‘the  Nile,  with  its  Tributaries.’ 
There  lies  the  godlike  form  in  its  manliness,  strength,  grand- 
eur, and  sublimity.  On  his  sinewy  arms,  mighty  shoulders^ 
and  muscular  legs,  a number  of  beautiful  little  boys  are  grace- 
fully dancing,  reclining,  and  playing  with  his  limbs.  These 
are  the  tributaries  of  the  god  Nile,  who  lies  there  in  sublime 
composure.  He  would  still  be  a god  although  he  were  en- 
tirely alone.  We  would  still  admire  him  and  rejoice  in  his 
beauty,  although  he  were  not  surrounded  by  these  graceful, 
boyish  forms.  But  they  w^ould  be  nothing  without  him, 
would  not  be  able  to  stand  alone,  and  would  be  passed  by  as 
unworthy  of  attention,  if  they  were  not  reposing  on  the  grand 
central  form.  Thus  it  is  with  all  my  other  talents  and  capac- 


GOETHE’S  RETURN  FROM  ROME. 


399 


ities:  they  are  only  the  little  hoys  of  the  statue,  and  with  me 
the  poet  is  the  main  figure.  Yes,  your  highness,  thus  it  is 
with  me.  My  poetic  talent  is  my  Nile,  and  my  other  little 
talents  are  the  tributaries  that  fiow  into  my  being  to  strengthen 
me,  to  make  the  waves  of  poetry  surge  higher,  and  fill  the  air 
with  music  that  shall  resound  throughout  the  world,  and  find 
an  echo  in  heaven  and  in  hell!’' 

^^Oh,  Wolf!”  cried  the  duke,  now  that  Goethe  had  paused 
for  a moment,  how  happy  I am  to  have  you  once  more  in 
our  midst!  It  is  as  though  the  sun  had  returned,  and  I had 
just  stepped  out  of  a dark  cellar  into  the  fresh,  free  air,  and 
were  walking  hand  in  hand  with  a friend  toward  a glittering 
temple  that  had  been  closed  to  me  during  his  absence.  Wolf, 
I was  becoming  a very  prosaic  and  stupid  fellow,  and  had 
almost  begun  to  consider  the  dark  cellar  in  which  I was  so- 
journing an  agreeable  dwelling.  I thank  God  that  you  have 
come  to  relieve  me  from  this  curse!  Speak  on,  my  friend; 
your  words  are  as  sweet  music  that  I have  not  heard  for  a 
long  time.” 

must  speak  on,  my  duke;  I must  unburden  my  heart 
completely,  for  who  knows  whether  it  will  often  open  itself 
again,  and  lay  aside  the  covering  in  which  I enveloped  the 
poor  thing  when  I took  leave  of  bright,  sunny  Italy?  But  I 
must  admit  that,  since  I crossed  the  borders  of  Germany,  I 
have  been  twenty  times  on  the  point  of  retracing  my  foot- 
^ steps,  in  defiance  of  reason  and  conviction — on  the  point  of 
giving  up  every  thing,  and  deciding  rather  to  live  in  Italy  as 
a happy,  worthless  dilettante,  than  to  dwell  in  Germany  as  a 
high  official  and  celebrated  poet.  I am  angry  with  myself, 
but  I must  nevertheless  make  the  admission.  I feel  that  J 
have  been  disenchanted  since  my  return  to  Germany : I now 
view,  with  sobered  sight,  many  things  that  memory  painted 
in  glowing  colors,  and  the  result  is  that  I am  by  no  means 
pleased.  I long  to  return  to  Italy;  and  yet,  in  my  inmost 
soul,  I feel  that  I must  remain  here,  in  order  to  become  that 
for  which  Fate  has  destined  me.  I feel  like  crying,  as  a bad 


400 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


boy  over  his  broken  playthings,  and  I could  box  my  own  ears 
for  entertaining  such  a desire.  I now  conjure  you,  my  duke 
and  friend,  stand  at  my  side  and  help  me  to  allay  the  fury 
of  the  storm  that  is  raging  in  my  inmost  being.  See,  what 
an  infamous  irony  this  is  on  my  being ! I have  happily  passed 
the  stormy  period  of  my  poetic  labors,  and  have  freed  myself 
from  the  bombast  of  sentimentality.  I despise  all  this  from 
the  bottom  of  my  heart,  and  am  at  times  so  angry  with  my- 
self about  that  sentimental  fellow,  ‘Werther,’  that  I would 
gladly  disown  him.  Now  a new  storm  is  raging  within  me  in 
its  former  fury,  and  my  heart  longs  for  Italy  as  for  a lost 
paradise.  So  help  me,  duke;  help  me  to  become  a sensible 
man  once  more!”  Goethe  stamped  furiously  on  the  floor  as 
he  uttered  these  words,  and  his  eyes  sparkled  with  anger. 

“Now  you  look  like  the  Thunderer,  like  Jupiter,”  said  the 
duke,  regarding  him  lovingly.  “ You  have  returned  hand- 
somer  and  sublimer  than  when  you  departed,  and  I can 
readily  comprehend  that  all  the  goddesses  and  nymphs  of 
Italy  have  endeavored  to  retain  in  their  happy  land  the 
heavenly  being  in  whom  the  sublimity  of  Jove  and  the  beautj 
of  Apollo  are  united.” 

“Duke!”  cried  Goethe,  furiously,  “ I conjure  you,  speak 
seriously!  Do  not  annihilate  me  with  your  ridicule!” 

“Well,  then,  we  will  be  serious,”  said  Charles  August, 
tenderly.  “ Come  here,  Wolf,  and  seat  yourself  at  my  side 
on  this  little  sofa,  where  we  have  so  often  sat  together  in 
brotherly  love.  Thus  it  shall  be  to-day  again.  I see,  to 
joy,  Wolf,  that  you  are  unchanged,  and  your  quick  temper 
and  flerce  anger  against  yourself  are  therefore  refreshing  to 
your  old  friend.  Now  let  us  see  what  can  be  done;  but  this 
I tell  you  in  advance — you  must  overcome  your  longing  to  re- 
turn to  Italy,  you  must  remain  here,  for  only  in  tranquillity 
and  peace  can  you  attain  the  high  ends  of  your  existence,  and 
climb  to  tlie  summit  of  which  you  were  speaking.  Of  this 
you  were  convinced  yourself,  and  on  this  account  you  left 
Italy  and  returned  home.  Therefore  be  true  to  yourself,  you 


GOETHE’S  RETURN  FROM  ROME. 


401 


dear,  great  fellow,  and  journey  on  toward  your  high  aim  with 
undaunted  heart  and  steadfast  gaze!  Accomplish  your  sub- 
lime mission  as  poet,  and  I will  endeavor  to  procure  you  the 
leisure  and  honorable  retirement  essential  to  your  poetic 
labors/' 

‘^My  duke  and  master,  you  are  indeed  my  savior!"  cried 
Goethe;  “you  have  spoken  what  I scarcely  dared  utter! 
Yes,  that  is  it!  Leisure  and  retirement  I must  have.  My 
official  sprang  wholly  from  my  personal  relations  to  your  high- 
ness. Let  our  old  ones  be  modified — let  a new  relation  here- 
after exist  between  us.  Let  me  fill  the  whole  measure  of  my 
existence  at  your  side,  so  that  my  strength  may  be  concen- 
trated and  made  available,  like  a newly-opened,  collected,  and 
purified  spring  situated  on  an  eminence,  from  which  your 
will  can  readily  cause  its  waters  to  fiow  in  any  direction! 
Continue  to  care  for  me  as  you  have  heretofore  done ; thus 
you  will  do  more  for  me  than  I could  accomplish  for  myself, 
more  than  I can  desire  or  demand.  Yes,  I hope  that  I will 
become  more  to  you  than  I have  hitherto  been,  if  you  will 
only  command  me  to  do  that  which  no  one  can  do  but  my- 
self, and  commission  others  to  do  the  rest.  I can  only  say : 
‘Master,  here  am  I,  do  with  me  as  you  will.’  " * 

“Let  me  first  tell  you.  Wolf,  what  it  is  that  no  one  but 
yourself  can  do : gladden  my  heart,  elevate  my  mind,  and  re- 
store sunshine  to  our  little  city.  During  your  absence  I have 
made  a fearful  discovery  concerning  myself ; I am  fast  becom- 
ing an  ‘old  fogy,’  and  if  new  life  and  activity  are  not  infused 
into  my  sluggish  spirit,  I greatly  fear  that  my  case  will  soon 
'be  hopeless.  As  it  is,  I resemble  the  stagnant  waters  of  a 
ditch.  In  its  depths  swims  many  a fine  fish  and  blossoms 
many  a fair  fiower,  but  the  concealing  duck-weed  covers  its 
surface  and  hides  the  treasures  that  lie  below.  You  and  you 
alone  can  brighten  the  mirror  of  my  soul.  And  if  you  but 
now  called  yourself  my  servant,  I can  reverse  your  poetic 

* Goethe’s  own  words.— See  correspondence  of  Duke  Charles  August  with  Goethe, 
vol.  ii. 


402 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


pnrase,  and  say  to  you:  ‘Servant,  here  am  I — do  with  your 
master  as  you  will.  ’ '' 

“ See,  my  duke,  you  make  me  blush  for  shame.  You  alone 
are  master,  and  you  only  can  do  as  you  will.” 

“ Then  let  me  tell  you  what  my  will  is.  Wolf,  and  I will  be 
brief,  for  I observe  that  the  quarter  of  an  hour  to  which  you 
proposed  to  limit  your  outpouring  of  the  heart  is  almost  at 
an  end,  and  the  worthy  face  of  my  cabinet  president  and 
privy-councillor  is  already  peering  forth  from  behind  the  god- 
like countenance  of  the  poet.  I wish  you  to  retain  the  rank 
and  dignities  with  which  you  were  invested  when  you  left  for 
Italy.  You  are  herewith  relieved  of  the  duty  of  presiding  in 
my  cabinet  and  in  the  war  office.  You,  however,  still  retain 
the  right  to  attend  the  various  meetings,  if  you  should  find 
time  to  do  so,  and  whenever  you  appear  you  will  seat  yourself 
in  the  chair  set  apart  for  me.  I will  see  that  instructions  to 
this  effect  are  issued.  On  the  other  hand,  you  will  retain  the 
superintendence  of  the  mining  commission,  and  all  other  in- 
stitutions of  science  and  art  which  you  now  hold.  Your  chief 
occupation  will,  however,  be  to  stand  at  my  side  as  friend  and 
councillor,  and  to  tell  me  the  plain,  unvarnished  truth  at  all 
times.  These  are  your  duties,  and  you  will  now  perceive  that 
I have  known  how  to  read  your  soul,  although  we  were  widely 
separated,  and  that  I have  endeavored  to  make  your  future 
honorable,  and  not  too  burdensome.  And,  that  you  may  not 
suppose,  Wolf,  that  these  are  only  fine  phrases  and  that  these , 
thoughts  first  occurred  to  me  in  your  presence  to-day,  I have 
brought  you  the  written  order  addressed  to  the  bureau  of  my 
cabinet,  and  the  letter  in  which  I acquainted  you  with  all 
these  matters,  and  which  I was  about  to  forward  to  you  in 
Rome  when  the  letter  came  announcing  your  departure  from 
that  city.” 

“ As  if  my  dear,  my  noble  duke  ever  needed  witnesses  to 
confirm  his  statements,”  cried  Goethe,  as  he  gently  refused  to 
receive  the  papers  which  the  duke  held  in  his  extended 
hand. 


GOETHE^S  RETURN  FROM  ROME. 


403 


“ Ah,  I perceive  the  cabinet  president  is  himself  once 
more,’'  cried  the  duke,  laughing.  “1  must  now  retire  to  my 
ducal  palace.  Others  will,  I have  no  doubt,  think  I have 
played  the  barbarian  and  tyrant  by  remaining  with  you  so 
long,  and  thereby  robbing  them  of  the  time  to  which  they 
imagine  they  have  a fairer  title.” 

“ Duke,  I know  of  no  one  who  has  a higher  and  better  title 
to  my  time  and  person  than  yourself,  my  dear  patron  and 
friend.” 

‘‘  Wolf,  it  is  well  that  I alone  have  heard  these  words,”  cried 
Charles  August,  gayly ; ‘‘  I believe  there  is  a woman  in  whose 
ears  they  would  have  had  a discordant  sound.  The  respon- 
sibility must  not  rest  on  me,  if  a difficulty  should  arise  on 
your  first  meeting.  Therefore  I am  going.  Wolf,  although  I 
am  very  curious  to  hear  of  your  promised  land  and  of  your 
discoveries  and  purchases,  but  for  this  I will  have  to  wait  till 
the  afternoon.  You  will,  of  course,  dine  with  me  to-day. 
Wolf,  and  dispense  a little  of  the  incense  of  your  eloquence 
on  the  altar  of  my  household  gods.  Farewell  till  we  meet 
again,  my  returned  wanderer ! I must,  however,  request  you 
not  to  come  as  the  privy-councillor,  but  as  the  poet.  You 
may  show  your  official  mask  and  the  star  on  your  breast  to 
the  court,  but  appear  before  me  with  your  Apollo  countenance 
and  the  stars  of  your  eyes.” 

“My  dear  duke,”  said  Goethe,  affectionately,  “your  pres- 
ence has  cheered  and  strengthened  me ; I feel  as  though  I had 
been  bathing  in  nectar,  and  had  been  refreshed  with  am- 
brosia. When  I am  with  you,  nothing  will  be  wanting  to  my 
joy  and  happiness.  You  must,  however,  not  be  angry,  my 
dear  duke,  if  I should  sometimes  appear  grave  and  stiller  than 
usual  in  the  presence  of  others,  and  you  will  then  know  that 
it  is  only  the  longing  after  the  distant  land  of  the  gods  that 
is  tormenting  me.” 

“ I will  know  how  to  account  for  it.  Wolf,  and  will  respect 
your  longing;  I very  much  doubt,  however,  whether  others 
will  be  equally  considerate — I doubt  whether  one  person  of 


404 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


whom  I am  thinking  will  be  particularly  pleased  with 
such  conduct  on  your  part.  Have  you  see  her  already. 
Wolf?” 

“Whom  does  your  highness  mean?”  asked  Goethe,  with  a 
perfectly  innocent  expression  of  countenance. 

The  duke  laughed.  “ Oh,  Wolf,  Wolf,  I hope  you  have 
not  exchanged  names,  as  Hector  and  Patroclus  exchanged 
armor,  and  become  Von  Stein.*  I hope  you  return  to  your 
old  love,  faithful  and  true.  Ah,  there  I have  made  a pun 
without  intending  it.  Excuse  me,  I entertained  no  evil  de- 
sign, but  now  that  I have  said  it  I will  repeat  it.  You  return 
to  your  old  love,  faithful  and  true.  Remain  here,  you  must 
not  accompany  me ; I came  sans  chemonie^  and  I will  take 
my  departure  in  like  manner.  It  is  understood  that  we  dine 
together  to-day.  Adieu!” 

A cloud  gathered  on  Goethe’s  brow  as  the  duke  left  the 
room.  “ My  old  love!”  said  he  to  himself,  in  low  tones.  “ I 
wish  he  had  not  spoken  that  word;  it  sounds  so  ridiculous!” 


CHAPTER  V. 

ESTRANGEMENT. 

Charlotte  von  Stein  sat  before  her  mirror,  anxiously  re- 
garding her  countenance,  and  carefully  examining  each  fea- 
ture and  every  little  wrinkle  that  was  observable  on  her  clear 
forehead  and  cheeks. 

“ No,”  said  she,  with  an  air  of  joyous  confidence,  “ no,  it  is 
not  visible ; no  one  can  read  it  in  my  face ! It  is  a secret  be- 
tween myself  and  my  certificate  of  baptism!” 

As  intelligent  as  she  was,  Charlotte  von  Stein  was  yet  sub- 
ject to  that  cowardly  fear  of  her  sex — the  fear  that  her  age 
might  be  read  in  lier  countenance.  Slie,  too,  was  wanting  in 
that  courage  which  contents  itself  witli  the  eternal  youth  of 

♦Von  Stein,  the  name  of  Goethe’s  sweetheart — anglicized:  Stone. 


ESTRANGEMENT. 


405 


the  mind,  and  does  not  demand  of  its  covering  that  it  retain 
no  traces  of  the  rude,  unfeeling  hand  of  Time. 

A woman  who  loves  has  invariably  the  weakness  to  desire 
not  to  become  old,  at  least  in  the  eyes  of  him  whose  image 
fills  her  heart — in  the  eyes  of  him  she  loves.  She  does  not 
consider  that,  in  so  doing,  she  insults  the  intelligence  of  the 
object  of  her  devotion,  by  admitting  that  he  thinks  more  of 
the  outward  form  than  of  the  inner  being,  and  loves  with  the 
eyes  only,  and  not  with  the  mind. 

In  the  first  years  of  their  acquaintance,  and  in  the  incipient 
stage  of  their  attachment,  Charlotte  von  Stein  had  always 
listened  to  Goethe’s  protestations  of  love  with  a merry  smile, 
and  had  invariably  replied : I am  too  old  for  you ! Remem- 
ber that  I am  some  years  older  than  you — that  I am  old 
enough  to  be  your  mother.”  When  she  made  this  reply, 
Goethe  would  laugh,  and  kiss  with  passionate  tenderness  the 
fair  hand  of  the  woman  who  offered  him  motherly  friendship, 
r:nd  whom  he  adored  with  all  the  ardor  of  a lover. 

But  ten  long  years  had  passed  since  then!  Charlotte 
thought  of  this  while  looking  at  herself  in  the  mirror,  and 
jhe  sighed  as  she  admitted  to  herself  that  she  had  committed 
a fault — a great  fault,  for  she  had  left  the  cool  regions  of 
motherly  tenderness,  and  had  permitted  herself  to  be  carried 
away  by  the  tide  of  Goethe’s  passion;  the  two  fiames  in  her 
heart  had  been  united  into  the  one  godlike  flame  of  love.  It 
had  seemed  so  sweet  to  be  adored  by  this  handsome  man,  and 
to  listen  to  his  tender  protestations  and  entreaties ! It  had 
been  so  charming  to  receive  each  morning  a letter  filled  with 
passionate  assurances  of  love,  and  vows  of  eternal  fidelity! 
She  had  continued  to  read  these  ardent  letters  until  their 
words  glowed  in  her  own  heart — until,  at  last,  that  day  came 
for  the  lovers  of  which  Dante  says : On  that  day  they  read 
no  more” — the  day  on  which  Charlotte  confessed  to  her  en- 
raptured lover  that  his  love  was  reciprocated. 

A few  davs  later,  Goethe  had  written : “ My  First  and 

Best  Friend  ! I have  always  had  an  ideal  wish  as  to  how  I 


406 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


desired  to  be  loved,  and  have  vainly  sought  its  fulfilment  in 
my  illusive  dreams.  Now  that  the  world  seems  lighter  to  me 
each  day,  I see  it  realized  in  such  a manner  that  it  can  never 
be  lost  again.  Farewell,  thou  fairest  prospect  of  my  whole 
life ; farewell,  thou  only  one,  in  whom  I need  lose  nothing,  in 
order  to  find  all!”  * 

Charlotte  had  placed  this  little  letter  in  a golden  locket, 
from  which  she  was  never  separated ; it  had  been  her  blissful 
assurance,  her  talisman  of  eternal  youth  and  joy. 

She  now  turned  from  the  mirror  that  utterly  refused  to  say 
any  thing  agreeable,  and  drew  from  her  bosom  her  talisman, 
the  locket  that  contained  the  relic,  the  source  of  so  much 
happiness,  love,  and  delight. 

Relics!  Alas,  how  much  that  we  consider  real,  present, 
and  full  of  life,  is  only  a relic  of  the  past!  How  few  men 
there  are  in  whose  hearts  the  love  they  once  vowed  should  be 
eternal,  is  no  more  than  a relic ! — the  crumbling  bone  of  a 
saint,  to  whom  altars  were  once  erected,  and  who  was  adored 
as  an  immortal,  unchangeable  being.  Alas,  Love,  thou  poor 
saint,  how  often  are  thy  altars  overthrown,  and  how  soon  do 
thy  youth  and  beauty  fade,  leaving  nothing  of  thee  but  a lit- 
tie  dust  and  ashes — a relic ! 

Charlotte  von  Stein  held  the  letter  in  her  hands,  but  the 
thought  did  not  occur  to  her  that  it  too  was  only  a relic;  she 
still  considered  it  the  eloquent  witness  of  passionate  love. 
While  reading  the  letter,  a bright  smile  had  illumined  her 
features,  and  imparted  to  them  a more  youthful  and  beautiful 
expression.  She  now  kissed  the  sheet  of  paper,  and  replaced  it 
in  the  locket  which  she  wore  on  a golden  chain  around  her  neck. 

What  need  had  she  of  written  evidences?  Was  not  he  near? 
would  not  Ms  lips  soon  say  more,  in  a single  kiss,  than  thou- 
sands of  written  words  could  tell? 

“But  he  might  have  come  sooner,”  whispered  a voice  in 
Charlotte’s  heart;  “ it  is  very  late.” 

♦Goethe’s  correspondence  with  Madanae  von  Stein,  vol.  ii.,  pp.  170, 171.  Literal 
translation. 


ESTRANGEMENT. 


407 


Her  beautiful  brown  eyes  cast  an  anxious  look  toward  the 
door,  and  she  smiled.  Her  heart  throbbed  in  advance  of 
time;  it  was  still  so  early  in  the  morning,  that  it  would 
hardly  have  been  considered  proper  for  him  to  call  at  an 
earlier  hour. 

But  now  her  heart  beat  quicker — she  heard  a step  in  the 
antechamber. 

“ It  is  he ! Be  firm,  my  heart,  do  not  break  with  delight, 
for — yes,  it  is  he!  it  is  he!’' 

She  flew  forward  to  meet  him,  with  extended  hands,  her 
countenance  radiant  with  delight.  “Welcome,  Goethe,  a 
thousand  welcomes!” 

“ A thousand  thanks,  Charlotte,  that  your  faithful,  loving 
heart  bids  me  welcome!” 

His  large  black  eyes  regarded  her  with  all  their  former 
tenderness,  and  then — then  he  kissed  her  hand. 

Charlotte  could  scarcely  restrain  a sigh,  and  could  not  re- 
press the  terror  that  pervaded  her  whole  being.  He  felt  the 
tremor  in  the  hands  which  he  held  in  his  own,  and  it  was  per- 
haps on  this  account  that  he  released  them,  threw  his  arms 
around  her  and  pressed  her  to  his  heart. 

“ Here  I am  once  more,  Charlotte,  and,  as  God  is  my  wit- 
ness, I return  with  the  same  love  and  fidelity  with  which  I 
left  you!  You  can  believe  this,  my  beloved,  for  it  was  on 
your  account  chiefly,  or  on  your  account  solely,  that  I re- 
turned at  all.  You  must  therefore  love  me  very  dearly,  Char- 
lotte, and  reward  me,  with  faithful  love  and  cordial  friend- 
ship, for  the  sacrifice  I have  made  for  your  sake.” 

“ It  was,  then,  a sacrifice?”  said  she,  with  a touch  of  irony 
in  her  voice  that  did  not  escape  Goethe. 

“Yes,  my  dearest,  this  return  to  cold,  prosaic  Germany, 
from  the  warm,  sunny  clime  of  happy  Italy,  was  a sacrifice.” 

“ Then  I really  regret  that  you  did  not  remain  there,”  said 
she,  with  more  sensitiveness  than  discretion. 

He  looked  at  her  wonderingly.  “ You  regret  that  I have 
returned?  I supposed  you  would  be  glad.” 


408 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


“ I can  rejoice  in  nothing  that  I have  attained  by  a sacrifice 
on  your  part.” 

‘‘  My  love,  do  not  let  us  quarrel  over  words,”  said  he,  almost 
sadly.  “We  will  not  unnecessarily  pour  drops  of  bitterness 
into  the  cup  of  our  rejoicing  at  being  together  once  more. 
We  have  met  again,  and  will  endeavor  to  hold  each  other  fast, 
that  we  may  never  be  divided.” 

“ If  an  effort  is  necessary,  then  we  are  already  half  divided.” 

“ But  I have  come  home  in  order  that  we  may  be  reunited, 
wholly  and  joyfully,”  said  Goethe,  moved  to  kindness  and 
generosity  by  the  tears  which  stood  in  her  eyes,  and  the  an- 
noyance and  sadness  that  clouded  her  countenance,  rendering 
it  neither  younger  nor  more  beautiful. 

But  remembrances  of  the  past  smiled  on  him  in  the  lus- 
trous eyes  of  the  woman  he  had  loved  so  ardently  for  ten 
years,  and  it  was  still  a very  comforting  feeling,  after  having 
been  tossed  about  by  the  storms  of  life  for  so  long  a time,  to 
return  once  more  to  his  heart’s  home,  to  lie  once  more  in  the 
haven  of  happiness  and  love,  where  there  were  no  more  storms 
and  dangers,  and  where  the  wearied  wanderer  could  enjoy 
peaceful  rest,  and  dream  sweet  dreams. 

He  seated  himself  at  Charlotte’s  side  on  the  sofa,  laid  his 
arm  around  her  neck,  took  her  hand  in  his  own,  looked  lov- 
ingly into  her  countenance,  and  began  to  tell  her  of  his  jour- 
ney— of  the  little  accidents  and  occurrences  that  can  only  be 
verbally  imparted. 

She  listened  attentively;  she  rejoiced  in  his  passionate 
eloquence,  in  his  glowing  descriptions  of  his  travels,  and 
yet — and  yet,  as  interesting  as  this  was  there  was  nevertheless 
another  theme  that  would  have  been  far  more  so — the  theme 
of  his  love,  of  his  longings  to  see  her,  and  of  his  delight  in 
being  once  more  reunited  with  his  Charlotte,  and  in  finding 
her  so  beautiful,  so  unchanged. 

Juit  Goetlie  did  not  speak  of  these  things;  and,  instead  of 
contenting  herself  with  rejiding  his  love  in  his  tender  glances, 
his  smiles,  and  his  confiding  and  devoted  manner,  her  heart 


ESTRANGEMENT. 


409 


thirsted  to  hear  passionate  assurances  of  love  fall  from  his 
lips.  Her  countenance  wore  a listless  expression,  and  she  did 
not  seem  to  take  her  usual  lively  interest  in  his  words. 
Goethe  observed  this,  and  interrupted  his  narrative  to  tell 
her  that  he  was  delighted  to  be  with  her  once  more,  and  that 
she  was  still  as  beautiful  and  charming  as  ever.  Hereupon 
Charlotte  burst  into  tears,  and  then  suddenly  embraced  him 
passionately,  and  rested  her  head  on  his  breast. 

‘‘  Oh ! let  no  estrangement  occur  between  us ; do  not  be- 
come cold  and  reserved  to  me  too,  as  you  are  to  the  rest  of 
the  world!” 

‘‘Am  I that?”  asked  he,  with  an  offended  air.  From  her 
at  least  he  had  not  deserved  this  reproach,  and  it  affected  him 
disagreeably,  casting  a damper  over  the  gayety  with  which  he 
had  been  narrating  his  adventures.  “ Am  I really  cold  and 
reserved?”  he  asked,  as  she  did  not  reply,  for  the  second  time. 

“Yes,  AVolf,”  said  she,  with  vivacity,  “you  know  that  you 
are;  the  world  accuses  you  of  being  so.” 

“ Because  I am  not  like  a market-place,  open  to  the  in- 
spection of  every  fool,  and  in  which  the  inquisitive  rabble  can 
gaze  at,  handle,  and  criticise  every  thing,  as  though  the 
holiest  thoughts  of  the  soul  were  mere  wares  exposed  for 
sale ! — because  I am  rather  to  be  compared  to  a fortress  sur- 
rounded by  a high  wall,  which  opens  its  well-guarded  gates  to 
the  initiated  and  chosen  only.  In  this  sense  I admit  that 
that  which  is  called  the  world,  and  which  is  in  reality  only 
the  inquisitive,  gossipping  rabble,  composed  chiefly  of  individ- 
uals who  make  great  pretensions  to  intellectuality,  but  are 
generally  empty-headed — that  this  world  calls  me  cold  and 
reserved,  I admit.  But  have  I ever  been  so  toward  my  friends, 
and,  above  all,  toward  you?” 

“No,  Heaven  be  thanked!  no,  my  beloved  Wolf!”  cried 
Charlotte,  in  eager  and  tender  tones,  well  aware  that  she  had 
committed  an  error,  which  she  wished  to  repair ; “ no,  toward 
me  you  have  always  been  friendly,  communicative,  and  open, 
and  therefore — ” 


410 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


“And  therefore,  my  love,'*  said  he,  interrupting  her, 
“ therefore  you  should  not  have  reproached  me,  undeservedly, 
in  the  hour  of  our  reunion.'*  He  arose  and  took  his  hat  from 
the  table. 

“ Oh,  Wolf!"  cried  she,  anxiously,  “you  are  not  going?” 

“ I must,  my  dearest ! I must  first  pay  a few  formal  visits, 
to  avoid  giving  offence.  I must  call  on  some  friends  I ex- 
pect to  meet  at  the  ducal  table  to-day.” 

“ Perhaps  it  was  only  on  this  account  that  you  visited  me?” 
said  Charlotte,  the  tears  which  she  could  no  longer  repress, 
gushing  from  her  eyes.  “Wolf,  did  you  visit  me  solely  be- 
cause you  expected  to  meet  me  in  the  ducal  palace  to-day?” 

He  regarded  her  with  a look  of  distress  and  astonishment. 
“ Charlotte,  dear  Charlotte,  is  it  possible  that  so  great  a 
change  has  come  over  you  in  two  short  years?” 

She  started,  and  a glowing  color  suffused  itself  over  her 
countenance ; the  poor  woman  thought  of  what  her  mirror 
had  told  her  but  a short  time  before,  and  Goethe’s  question 
awakened  bitter  reflections.  “Am  I really  so  changed?” 
sighed  she,  and  her  head  sank  wearily  upon  her  breast. 

“No,”  cried  he,  earnestly,  “no,  Charlotte,  you  cannot  have 
changed ; it  is  only  that  this  first  moment  of  reunion  after  a 
long  separation  has  affected  us  strangely.  We  will  soon  be  re- 
stored to  each  other  completely,  we  will  soon  he  reunited  in 
love  and  friendship.  Charlotte,  it  is  impossible  that  two 
years  of  separation  can  have  torn  asunder  the  holy  union  of 
our  souls ! Let  us  strive  to  prevent  so  unhappy  a consum- 
mation; it  would  be  a misfortune  for  me — yes,  I may  say,  a 
misfortune  for  you,  too!  I think  we  love  each  other  so 
tenderly  that  we  should  both  endeavor,  with  the  whole 
strength  of  our  souls,  to  ward  off  misfortune  from  each  other. 
Let  these  be  my  farewell  words,  darling,  and,  as  I have  just 
learned  that  you  too  will  dine  at  court  to-day,  I can  joyfully 
say — till  we  meet  again!” 

He  embraced  lier,  and  pressed  a kiss  on  her  lips,  a kiss  that 
wounded  her  heart  more  than  a cold  leave-taking  would  have 


ESTRANGEMENT. 


411 


done ; for  this  gentle,  friendly  kiss  seemed  to  her  but  as  the 
second  echo  of  what  her  mirror  had  said ! As  the  door  closed 
behind  his  loved  form,  Charlotte  sank  down  on  her  knees, 
buried  her  face  in  the  cushions  of  the  sofa,  and  wept 
bitterly. 

His  head  erect,  his  countenance  grave  and  earnest,  Goethe 
walked  on  to  pay  his  calls ; and  those  whom  he  thus  honored 
found  that  he  had  come  home  colder  and  more  reserved  than 
when  he  had  departed.  But,  at  the  banquet,  in  the  ducal 
palace,  he  was  neither  cold  nor  reserved ; there  he  was  elo- 
quent and  impassioned, — there  enthusiastic  words  of  poetic 
description  flowed  like  golden  nectar  from  his  smiling  lips; 
there  his  eye  sparkled  and  his  cheek  glowed,  and  his  illustra- 
tion of  life  in  Italy  awakened  delight  and  admiration  in  the 
hearts  of  all — of  all,  except  Charlotte  von  Stein ! She  sat  at 
Goethe’s  side,  and  he  often  turned  his  lightning  glance  on 
her,  as  though  speaking  to  her  alone,  but  Charlotte  felt  only 
that  what  he  said  was  intended  for  all.  Had  he  but  at- 
tempted to  whisper  a single  word  in  her  ear,  had  he  given  her 
hand  a gentle  pressure,  had  he  but  made  her  some  secret  sign 
understood  by  herself  only,  and  permitted  her  to  feel  that 
something  peculiar  and  mysterious  was  going  on  in  which 
they  two  alone  participated ! In  society,  Goethe  had  formerly, 
before  his  journey  to  Italy,  availed  himself  of  every  little  op- 
^portunity  that  arose  to  press  her  hand  and  whisper  loving 
words  in  her  ear.  To-day  he  was  wanting  in  these  delicate 
little  attentions — in  these  little  love-signals,  for  which  she 
had  so  often  scolded  him  in  former  times ! She  was  therefore 
very  quiet,  and  did  not  join  in  the  applause  of  the  rest  of  the 
company.  But,  amidst  the  admiration  evoked  by  his 
eloquence,  Goethe  listened  only  to  hear  a word  of  approval 
from  Charlotte,  and,  when  his  friend  still  remained  silent, 
his  animation  vanished  and  his  countenance  darkened. 

But  they  had  loved  each  other  too  long  and  too  tenderly 
not  to  be  alarmed  by  the  thought  of  a possible  coolness  and 
separation.  True,  Charlotte  often  wept  in  the  solitude  of  her 
27 


412 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


chamber,  and  accused  him  of  ingratitude ; true,  Goethe  often 
grumbled  in  silence,  and  lamented  over  Charlotte’s  irritability 
and  sensitiveness,  but  yet  he  was  earnest  in  his  desire  to  avoid 
all  estrangement,  and  to  restore  to  their  hearts  the  beautiful 
harmony  that  had  so  long  existed. 

He  resumed  the  habit  that  had  formerly  given  him  so  much 
delight — that  of  writing  to  Charlotte  almost  daily.  But  her 
sensitive  woman’s  ear  detected  a difference  in  the  melody  of 
his  letters;  they  were  no  longer  written  in  the  same  high, 
passionate  key,  but  had  been  toned  down  to  a low,  melancholy 
air.  Her  own  replies  were  of  a like  character,  and  this  an- 
noyed Goethe  greatly.  He  abused  the  gloomy  skies  of  Ger- 
many, and  lamented  over  the  lost  paradise  of  Italy;  and 
Charlotte  could  not  help  comprehending  that  she  was  the 
cause  of  his  discontent  and  anger. 

But  still  he  visited  her  almost  every  day,  and  was  always 
animated  and  communicative  in  her  society.  He  read  por- 
tions of  his  newly-commenced  drama  ‘‘  Torquato  Tasso,”  with 
her,  told  her  of  his  plans  for  the  future,  and  permitted  her  to 
take  part  in  his  intellectual  life.  Then  she  would  soon  forget 
her  little  sorrows  and  her  woman’s  sensitiveness,  and  become 
once  more  the  intelligent  friend,  with  the  clear  judgment  and 
profound  understanding. 

On  an  occasion  of  this  kind,  Goethe  requested  his  “ beloved 
friend”  to  return  the  letters  he  had  written  to  her  during  the 
two  years  of  his  sojourn  in  Italy. 

Charlotte  looked  at  him  in  astonishment.  “ My  letters — 
the  dear  letters  I have  kept  so  sacred  that  I have  not  shown  a 
single  one  of  them  to  my  most  intimate  friends — these  letters 
you  desire  me  to  return?” 

“ Certainly,  my  dear,  I beg  you  to  do  so.  I intend  having 
an  account  of  my  Italian  journey  published — have  also  prom- 
ised Wieland  some  fragments  for  his  ‘‘ Mercury,”  and,  in 
order  to  prepare  these  for  the  press,  it  will  only  be  necessary 
to  have  the  letters  I have  written  to  you  copied.” 

“ Can  this  be  possible.  Wolf?”  asked  she,  in  dismay.  "'Do 


ESTRANGEMENT. 


413 


you  really  intend  to  have  the  letters,  written  by  you  to  me, 
read  and  copied  by  a third  person?” 

‘‘  As  a matter  of  course,  I will  first  correct  these  letters,  and 
leave  nothing  in  them  addressed  to  you  personally  and  in- 
tended for  your  dear  eyes  only,”  replied  Goethe,  laughing, 
“ I always  had  this  end  in  view  while  writing  to  you  in  Italy, 
and  you  will  have  observed  that  my  letters  were  always 
divided,  to  a certain  extent,  into  two  portions.  The  first  is 
addressed  to  you  only,  my  dear  Charlotte — to  you,  my  friend 
and  my  beloved — and  this  was  filled  with  the  words  of  love 
and  longing  that  glowed  in  my  own  heart.  The  second  por- 
tion is  a mere  narrative  and  description  of  what  I have  seen, 
heard,  and  done  while  in  Italy,  and  was  intended  for 
publication.” 

“But  this  is  unheard  of,”  cried  Charlotte,  angrily;  “this 
experiment  does  great  honor  to  your  cold  calculation,  but  very 
little  to  your  heart.” 

“ Charlotte,  I am  not  aware  of  ever  having  done  any  thing 
discreditable  to  my  heart  in  my  relations  to  you!” 

“Relations  to  me!”  she  repeated,  offended.  “Certainly, 
this  is  an  entirely  new  name  for  the  ardent  love  you  once  pro- 
tested could  never  expire  in  your  heart.” 

“Charlotte,  dear,  beloved  Charlotte!”  he  sighed,  sadly, 
do  take  pity  on  us  both.  Be  yourself  once  more.  You 
were  once  so  noble,  so  lofty-minded;  do  not  now  fall  from 
this  high  estate,  but  take  a quiet,  unprejudiced  view  of  our 
relations.  Why  should  you  reproach  me  for  desiring  to  have 
a portion  of  your  letters  published?  Will  they  be  any  the  less 
your  letters  on  that  account?” 

“ They  are  not,  and  never  were  mine!”  she  replied,  angrily; 
“ they  merely  chanced  to  be  addressed  to  me — these  letters, 
which  you  intended  for  publication  even  while  writing  them, 
and  which  were  so  well  concocted  that  it  will  only  be  necessary 
to  extract  a few  little  elements  of  feeling  and  sentiment  to 
make  the  manuscript  complete  and  ready  for  the  press.  And 
I,  poor,  blinded  simpleton,  imagined  that  this  Goethe,  who 


414 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


could  leave  me  to  go  to  Italy — I imagined  that  this  Goethe, 
whom  my  soul  had  followed  with  its  sighs  of  affectionate  long- 
ing, still  loved  me.  I was  generous  enough  to  believe  that 
the  thoughts,  love,  and  confidence  contained  in  his  letters 
were  addressed  to  me  only;  but  now  I must  learn  that  I wa& 
nothing  more  to  him  than  the  representative  of  the  great 
hydra-headed  monster,  the  public,  and  that  he  was  only  inform-* 
ing  it  when  he  seemed  to  be  speaking  to  me!’' 

“ Charlotte,  I conjure  you,  do  not  continue  to  talk  in  this 
manner;  you  cannot  know  how  your  words  grieve  my  heart! 
Charlotte,  by  the  brightest  and  most  beautiful  years  of  my 
life,  I conjure  you,  do  not  step  forth  from  the  pure  and^^ 
radiant  atmosphere  in  which  you  have  heretofore  appeared  to 
me.  I conjure  you,  my  friend,  by  all  the  adoration,  esteem, 
and  love  which  I have  consecrated  to  you,  do  not  descend 
from  the  altar  on  which  my  love  has  placed  you;  do  not  join 
the  throng  of  those  women  who  are  unnecessarily  jealous  when 
they  fancy  their  lovers  not  quite  so  tender  as  usual.  You  ar€^ 
not  one  of  them ; remain,  therefore,  on  your  altar,  and  allow 
me  to  worship  you  as  I have  heretofore  done.” 

^‘You  do  well  to  say  ‘as  you  have  done,’  but  as  you  no 
longer  do,”  cried  Charlotte,  bursting  into  tears,  without  con- 
sidering that  woman’s  tears  are  but  poor  weapons  to  use 
against  men,  and  that  the  woman  must  be  very  young,  very 
beautiful,  and  the  object  of  great  adoration,  who  can  afford  to 
disfigure  her  countenance  with  tears  and  clouds  of  discontent. 

Goethe  looked  at  her  in  surprise  and  alarm,  and  his  glance 
rested  on  her  countenance  inquiringly,  as  though  seeking  the 
charm  that  had  formerly  attracted  him  so  irresistibly.  Then, 
as  she  fastened  her  tear-stained  eyes  on  his  countenance,  he 
started  and  turned  hastily  aside,  as  though  some  unwelcome 
vision  had  arisen  before  him. 

The  conviction  now  dawned  on  Charlotte  that  she  had 
committed'  a grave  error;  she  quickly  dried  her  eyes,  and, 
with  that  powier  peculiar  to  women,  she  even  forced  a smile 
to  her  lips. 


ESTRANGEMENT. 


415 


“ Yon  turn  from  me,  Wolf,*'  said  she,  in  tender  tones,  “ you 
do  not  reply?" 

“My  dear,"  said  he,  gently,  “as  you  have  asked  me  no 
question,  what  can  I answer?  You  asserted  that  I no  longer 
loved  and  adored  you  as  in  former  days.  To  such  an  asser- 
tion, Charlotte,  I can  make  no  reply;  I would  consider  it  a 
sacrilegious  breach  of  the  union  that  has  been  sanctified  and 
confirmed  by  long  years  of  love  and  fidelity,  and  that  should 
be  elevated  above  all  doubt  and  protestations." 

“ Then  you  love  me.  Wolf?  You  still  love  me?’* 

“Yes,"  said  he;  and  it  seemed  to  Charlotte  as  though  he 
had  laid  a peculiar  emphasis  on  this  little  word.  It  sounded 
like  another  echo  of  the  ominous  whisperings  of  her  mirror. 

For  a moment  both  were  silent,  perhaps  because  Charlotte 
was  too  completely  absorbed  in  her  own  thoughts.  When 
they  conversed  again  it  was  on  an  entirely  different  topic. 

After  a short  time  Goethe  tenderly  took  leave  of  Charlotte, 
and  left  the  house ; he  hurried  through  the  streets  and  en- 
tered the  park,  to  the  densest  and  most  obscure  retreats  of 
which  he  had  so  often  revealed  his  thoughts  in  past  years. 
This  park  had  been  Goethe’s  true  and  discreet  friend  for 
many  years,  and  he  now  turned  his  footsteps  once  more 
toward  the  favorite  retreat  in  which  he  had  so  often  poured 
out  his  sighs  and  complaints  in  former  days,  when  Charlotte 
had  cruelly  repelled  the  advances  of  her  tender  friend  and 
lover.  Goethe  suffered  to-day  also,  but  his  sufferings  were 
not  to  be  compared  to  those  he  had  formerly  experienced  in 
the  same  shady  avenues.  Then  his  soul  was  filled  with  a de- 
spair that  was  tempted  with  hope  and  joyousness.  For  was 
there  ever  a true  lover  whose  ladylove  had  driven  him  to  de- 
spair by  her  cruelty,  who  did  not  nevertheless  entertain  a 
joyous  hope  that  her  hard  heart  would  at  last  be  softened,  and 
that  he  would  yet  become  a happy  lover?  Then  these  avenues 
had  often  resounded  with  Goethe’s  sighs  and  lamentations, 
and  there  the  tears  of  wounded  pride  had  often  filled  his  eyes. 
To-day  he  neither  sighed  nor  lamented,  and  his  eyes  were  tear- 


416 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


less,  but  he  looked  gloomy,  and  an  expression  of  annoyance 
rather  than  of  sadness  rested  on  his  countenance.  In  silence 
he  walked  to  and  fro  with  hasty  strides ; suddenly  he  raised 
the  light  cane  which  he  held  in  his  hand  and  struck  a sprig 
of  blossoming  woodbine  from  a vine  that  overhung  the  walk, 
so  violently  that  it  fell  to  his  feet ; and  then  his  lips  mur- 
mured : “ She  is  very  much  changed.  She  has  beeome  an  old 
woman,  and  I — I cannot  make  myself  ridiculous  by  playing 
the  lover — no!” 

He  ceased  speaking,  without  having  finished  his  sentence, 
as  if  alarmed  at  his  own  words.  He  then  stooped  down, 
picked  up  the  sprig  of  woodbine,  and  regarded  it  thought- 
fully. 

“Poor  blossom,”  said  he,  gently,  “I  did  wrong  to  strike 
you!  You  are  not  beautiful,  but  you  are  very  fragrant,  and 
it  is  for  this  reason  probably  that  the  kindly  and  delicate  feel- 
ing of  the  people  has  given  you  so  pretty  a name.  They  call 
you,  ‘The  longer,  the  dearer!’  I will  not  tread  you  under 
foot,  you  poor  ‘the  longer  the  dearer;’  your  fragrance  is  very 
delightful,  and  somehow  it  seems  to  me  as  though  Charlotte’s 
eyes  were  gazing  at  me  from  out  your  tiny  cups.” 

He  placed  the  fiower  in  a button-hole  of  his  coat,  and,  as 
though  his  little  “ the  longer  the  dearer”  blossom  had  given 
him  a satisfactory  solution  of  his  heart-troubles,  he  left  the 
shady  retreat  and  went  toward  an  opening  in  the  park.  He 
walked  rapidly,  and  was  on  the  point  of  turning  into  a path 
that  led  to  his  garden-house,  when  he  saw  a young  girl  ap- 
proaehing  from  the  other  side  of  the  road.  She  was  unknown 
to  Goethe,  and  her  whole  appearance  indicated  that  she  did 
not  belong  to  that  favored  class  that  claims  to  constitute  what 
is  called  “ society.”  The  simple  calico  dress  which  enveloped 
her  full  and  graceful  figure,  the  coarse  shoes  in  whieh  her  lit- 
tle feet  were  enclosed,  and  the  white  and  delicate  little  un- 
gloved hands,  proclaimed  that  she  did  not  belong  to 
“ soeiety.  ” Moreover,  the  light  little  hat  which  ladies  of  rank 
wore  jauntily  on  one  side  of  their  powdered  hair  at  that  time, 


ESTRANGEMENT. 


417 


was  wanting.  Her  hair  was  uncovered,  and  surrounded  her 
lovely  little  head  with  a mass  of  sunny  curls.  Her  coun- 
tenance was  radiant  with  youth,  innocence,  and  freshness; 
she  blushed  as  her  eyes  encountered  Goethe’s  lightning 
glances.  Her  large  blue  eyes  rested  on  him  with  an  expres- 
sion of  gentle  entreaty  and  tender  humility,  and  a soft  smile 
played  about  her  pouting,  crimson  lips.  This  youthful, 
charming  apparition  resembled  hut  little  the  pale,  faintly- 
colored  blossoms  of  the  flower  which  he  wore  in  his  button- 
hole ; she  was  more  like  the  rich  mossrose-bud  which  nestled 
on  the  fair  girl’s  bosom,  and  with  which  she  had  conflned  the 
two  ends  of  the  lace  shawl  that  hung  loosely  over  her  beautiful 
shoulders. 

Goethe  now  stood  before  her,  regarding  her  with  inquiring, 
wondering  glances.  With  a graceful  movement  the  young 
girl  raised  her  right  hand,  in  which  she  held  a folded  paper. 

“ Mr.  Privy-Councillor,  I beg  you  to  take  this  and  read  it.’' 

“What  does  this  document  contain?”  asked  Goethe,  in 
tender  tones. 

“ It  is  a petition  from  my  brother  in  Jena,”  murmured  her 
clear,  silvery  voice.  “ I promised  him  to  give  it  to  the  privy- 
councillor  myself,  and  to  entreat  him  right  earnestly  to  grant 
my  dear  brother’s  request.  Dear  privy-councillor,  please  do 
so.  We  are  such  a poor  and  unhappy  family;  we  are  com- 
pelled to  work  so  hard,  and  we  earn  so  little.  We  have  to 
study  such  close  economy,  and  there  are  so  few  holidays  in 
our  life ! But  it  would  be  a glorious  fete-day  for  us  all  if  the 
privy-councillor  would  grant  what  my  dear  brother  so  ardently 
desires.” 

Goethe’s  eyes  were  still  fastened  on  the  lovely  apparition 
that  stood  before  him  like  an  embodied  Psyche.  In  her  rich, 
youthful  beauty  she  seemed  to  him  like  some  myrtle-blossom 
wafted  over  from  sunny  Italy.  “ What  is  your  name,  my 
dear  girl?”  asked  he. 

“My  name  is  Christiane  Vulpius,  Mr.  Privy-Councillor/' 
murmured  she,  casting  her  eyes  down. 


418 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


“Not  the  daughter  of  that  good-for-nothing  drunkard, 
who — 

“ Sir,  he  is  my  father,”  said  she,  interrupting  him  in  such 
sad,  reproachful  tones,  that  Goethe  felt  heartily  ashamed  of 
his  inconsiderate  words,  and  took  off  his  hat  as  he  would  have 
done  to  a lady  of  rank.  “ Forgive  me,  mademoiselle,  I did 
wrong.  Excuse  my  thoughtless  words.  But  now  I can 
readily  comprehend  that  your  family  must  be  poor  and  un- 
happy. It  seems  to  me  that  misfortune  has,  however,  not 
dared  to  touch  these  rosy  cheeks  and  lustrous  eyes  with  its 
rude  fingers.” 

She  smiled.  “I  am  still  so  young,  sir;  youth  is  light- 
hearted and  hopes  for  better  times.  And  then,  when  I grow 
weary  of  our  dark  little  room,  I run  here  to  the  park. 
The  park  is  every  one’s  garden,  and  a great  delight  for  us 
poor  people.  Here  I skip  about,  seek  fiowers  in  the  grass, 
and  sing  with  the  birds.  Is  not  this  enough  to  make  me 
happy,  although  hard  work,  poor  fare,  and  much  abuse,  await 
me  at  home?” 

“ But  it  seems  to  me,”  said  Goethe,  taking  the  hand,  which 
still  held  the  petition,  gently  in  his  own,  “ it  seems  to  me 
that  this  fair  hand  has  no  right  to  complain  of  hard  work. 
It  is  as  white  as  a lily.’' 

“And  this  hand  has  made  a great  many  lilies,”  rejoined 
she,  smiling.  “ My  work  consists  in  making  fiowers.  I love 
flowers,  and  roam  through  the  woods  all  day  long  on  Sundays, 
seeking  beautiful  flowers  to  copy  from.  My  field-flower  bou- 
quets are  great  favorites,  and  the  milliners  pay  me  well  for 
them.  They  are  very  fashionable,  and  the  high-born  ladies 
at  court  all  desire  to  wear  field-flower  bouquets  on  their  hats. 
Day  before  yesterday  I furnished  a field-flower  bouquet,  which 
the  milliner  sold  to  Madame  the  Baroness  von  Stein,  on  the 
same  day,  and  yesterday  I saw  it  on  her  hat.” 

The  hand  which  but  now  had  clasped  the  white  tapering 
fingers  of  the  young  girl  so  tenderly,  trembled  a little,  and 
a sliadow  flitted  over  his  smiling  countenance.  Madame  von 


ESTRANGEMENT. 


419 


Stein’s  name  sounded  strangely  on  the  young  girl’s  lips;  it 
seemed  like  a warning  of  impending  danger.  He  looked 
grave,  and  released  her  hand,  retaining  only  the  petition. 
“Tell  me  what  it  contains,’’  said  he,  pointing  to  the  paper. 
“ I would  rather  read  it  from  your  lips  than  from  the 
paper?” 

“ Mr.  Privy-Councillor,  it  concerns  my  poor,  dear  brother. 
He  is  such  a brave,  good  fellow,  and  so  diligent  and  learned. 
He  lives  in  Jena,  translates  books  from  the  Italian  and 
French,  and  sells  them  to  publishing  houses.  The  office  of 
secretary  of  the  university  library,  in  Jena,  is  now  vacant, 
and  my  brother  desires  it,  and  would  be  so  happy  if  he  should 
receive  the  appointment!  He  has  dared  to  address  you,  Mr. 
Councillor,  and  to  entreat  you  earnestly  to  use  your  influence 
to  secure  him  the  situation.  I have  undertaken  to  deliver  the 
petition,  and  to  say  a great  many  fine  phrases  besides.  Ah, 
Mr.  Privy- Councillor,  I had  written  down  a whole  speech  that 
I intended  to  make  to  you.” 

“ Then  let  me  hear  this  speech,  my  fair  girl.  The  nightin- 
gales and  bulfinches  have  hushed  their  songs,  and  are  waiting 
for  you  to  begin.” 

“ Sir,”  murmured  she,  blushing,  “ I do  not  know  why  it  is, 
but  I cannot.” 

He  bent  forward,  closer  to  her  side,  so  close  that  the  wind 
blew  her  golden  locks  against  his  cheek.  “ Why  is  it  that  you 
cannot,  my  fair  child?  Why  not  let  me  hear  your  beautiful 
little  speech?” 

“ Because,  because — I have  hitherto  only  seen  you  at  a dis- 
tance, and  then  you  looked  so  exalted,  and  walked  with  so 
much  stiffness  and  dignity,  that  I entertained  the  most  pro- 
found respect  for  the  proud  old  privy-councillor,  and  now 
that  I am  near  you  I see,  well — ” 

“ Well?” 

“Well,”  cried  she,  with  a joyous  peal  of  laughter,  “I  see 
that  you  are  much  too  young,  that  my  speech  is  entirely  in- 
appropriate.” 


420 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


‘^Why  so?”  asked  Goethe,  smiling.  “Try  it,  let  me  hear 
it,  nevertheless.” 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  an  inquiring,  childlike  expres- 
sion. “ Do  you  believe  that  my  beautiful  speech  would  in- 
fluence you  and  promote  my  brother’s  interests?  If  you 
believe  that,  I will  speak,  for  my  brother  is  a dear,  good  fel- 
low, and  I will  do  any  thing  to  make  him  happy!” 

“Then  let  us  hear  it,”  replied  Goethe,  delighted  with  the 
fair  young  girl,  whose  beauty,  grace,  and  naivete,  reminded 
him  of  the  lovely  Leonora  in  Rome.  Yes,  it  was  she,  it  was 
Leonora,  with  this  difference  only,  that  this  fair  girl  was  a 
northern  version  of  the  Leonora  of  the  south,  but  was  none 
the  less  beautiful  on  that  account.  “ Oh,  Leonora,  you  child 
of  the  sun  and  of  Nature,  am  I really  to  be  so  blessed,  am  I to 
find  you  here  again — here  where  my  heart  was  congealing, 
and  longing  for  the  sunny  rays  of  delight  from  a fair  woman’s 
eyes?  Yes,  Leonora,  this  is  your  sweet  smile  and  kindling, 
childlike  glance;  it  is  you,  and  yet  it  is  not  you.  God  and 
Nature  were  reflected  in  your  countenance,  a whole  heaven 
shone  in  your  features.  Fair  Nature  is  reflected  in  this  lovely 
countenance  also,  but  I seek  the  divinity  in  vain,  and  instead 
of  heaven  I find  the  joyous  earth  enthroned  therein!” 

Goethe  was  occupied  with  these  thoughts  while  Christiane, 
blushing,  smiling,  half-ashamed  at  times,  and  then  again  bold 
and  fearless,  was  declaiming  her  well-prepared  speech.  Too 
much  of  what  was  passing  in  Goethe’s  mind  must  have  been 
reflected  in  the  tender,  ardent  glances  which  rested  on  her 
countenance,  for  she  suddenly  broke  off  in  the  midst  of  a sen- 
tence, murmured  a few  embarrassed  words,  blushed,  courte- 
sied,  and  then  turned  and  fled  like  a startled  doe. 


THE  TWO  POETS. 


421 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  TWO  POETS. 

“She  is  bewitching,”  murmured  Goethe,  as  the  beautiful 
girl  was  lost  to  view  behind  the  green  bushes  that  skirted  the 
avenue.  “I  had  no  idea  that  dull,  sober  Weimar  contained 
such  a treasure,  and — ” 

“Goethe!  Welcome,  Goethe!”  cried  the  joyous  voice  of  a 
woman  behind  him;  “how  delighted  I am  to  meet  you 
here!” 

He  turned  hastily,  and  saw  Madame  von  Kalb  standing 
before  him,  on  the  arm  of  a tall,  fair-haired  gentleman. 
This  was  the  cause  of  Christiane’s  flight.  The  beautiful  girl 
had  seen  this  lady  and  gentleman  coming.  She  was,  there- 
fore, not  only  beautiful,  she  was  also  discreet  and  modest. 
Goethe  said  this  to  himself,  while  he  kissed  Madame  von 
Kalb’s  extended  hand,  and  gayly  responded  to  her  greeting. 

“The  two  gentlemen  are,  of  course,  acquainted,”  said  she. 

“I  believe  I have  never  had  the  honor,”  replied  Goethe, 
W'ho  had  again  assumed  the  cold  reserve  of  the  privy- 
councillor. 

“ Who  does  not  know  the  greatest  and  most  celebrated  of 
Germany’s  poets?”  said  the  other  gentleman,  a slight  flush 
suffusing  itself  over  his  pale,  hollow  cheeks.  “ I have  known 
the  poet  Goethe  for  a long  time;  I was  present  when  he 
visited  the  Charles  School  in  Stuttgart.  He,  of  course,  did 
not  observe  the  poor  scholar,  but  the  latter  was  delighted  to 
see  the  poet  Goethe.  And  he  is  now  delighted  to  make  the 
acquaintance  of  the  Privy-Councillor  Goethe!” 

Perhaps  there  was  a slight  touch  of  irony  in  these  words, 
but  his  large  blue  eyes  beamed  as  mildly  and  lovingly  as  ever. 
A slight  shadow  flitted  over  Goethe’s  brow. 

“ You  are  right,”  said  he,  “ in  reminding  me  that  there  are 
hours  in  which  the  poet  must  be  contented  to  perform  the 


4:22 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


duties  of  an  official.  By  the  document  which  I hold  in  my 
hand,  you  will  perceive,  my  lady,  that  I am  an  official  who 
has  duties  to  fulfil,  and  I trust  that  you  will,  therefore,  excuse 
me.’'  He  bowed  formally,  and  passed  on  in  the  direction  of 
his  garden-house. 

“ He  is  becoming  colder  and  more  reserved  each  day,”  said 
Madame  von  Kalb.  ‘‘  He  has  been  completely  transformed 
since  I first  saw  him  here  in  Weimar.  Then,  radiant  and 
handsome  as  Apollo,  flaming  with  enthusiasm,  carrying  all 
hearts  with  him  by  his  impetuosity  and  genial  manner — 
then  we  were  forced  to  believe  that  earth  had  no  barriers  or 
fetters  for  him,  but  that  he  could  spread  his  pinions  and  soar 
heavenward  at  any  moment;  now,  a stiff,  unapproachable, 
privy-councillor,  reserved  and  grandly  dignified!  Schiller, 
no  woman  could  change  so  fearfully,  or  become  so  false  to 
herself!  Goethe’s  appearance  has  saddened  me  so  much  that 
I feel  like  crying!” 

“And  I,”  said  Schiller,  angrily,  “ I feel  like  calling  myself 
a simpleton  for  having  addressed  a kindly  greeting  to  so 
haughty  a gentleman.  He  despises  me,  and  looks  down  upon 
the  unknown  dramatic  writer  with  contempt;  he — ” 

“Frederick,”  said  Madame  von  Kalb,  gently,  ‘‘my  Freder- 
ick, such  petty  envy  does  not  beseem  a genius  like  yourself ; 
you—” 

“Nor  do  I envy  him,”  said  Schiller,  interrupting  her;  “in 
my  breast  also  glows  the  holy  fire  that  was  not  stolen  from 
heaven  by  Prometheus  for  him  alone!  My  spirit  also  has 
pinions  that  would  bear  it  aloft  to  the  sun,  if — yes,  if  it  were 
not  for  the  paltry  fetters  that  bind  my  feet  to  earth!” 

“And  yet,  my  beloved  friend,”  rejoined  Charlotte,  passion« 
ately,  “ and  yet  I will  be  only  too  happy  to  share  these  fetters 
with  you — and  I would  rather  live  with  you  in  a modest  cot- 
tage, than  in  the  most  magnificent  palace  at  the  side  of  an 
unloved  man.” 

“You  are  an  angel,  Charlotte,”  murmured  Schiller;  “you 
over-estimate  me,  and  I know  only  too  well  how  little  I ro- 


THE  TWO  POETS. 


423 


semble  the  sublime  image  your  lively  imagination  has  made 
of  me.'' 

He  did  not  look  at  Charlotte  while  uttering  these  words, 
his  manner  was  embarrassed,  and  his  eyes  turned  heavenward. 
He  suffered  Charlotte  to  lead  him  by  the  hand,  and  walked 
at  her  side  like  a dreaming,  confiding  child. 

She  led  him  to  the  darkest  and  most  solitary  avenue — to 
the  same  retreat  in  which  Goethe  had  walked  restlessly  to  and 
fro  but  a short  time  before.  The  little  branch  of  woodbine 
which  Goethe  had  struck  down  with  his  cane,  and  from 
which  he  had  plucked  a blossom  and  placed  it  in  his  button- 
hole, still  lay  in  the  middle  of  the  road.  Charlotte  carelessly 
trod  it  under  foot,  never  dreaming  that  those  crushed  blos- 
soms could  have  told  a tale  that  might  have  served  her  as  a 
warning. 

But  of  women’s  hearts  the  same  may  be  said  that  Mirabeau 
said  of  princes : They  have  learned  nothing  and  forgotten 

nothing!" 

No ; they,  too,  learn  nothing  and  forget  nothing,  these  poor 
women’s  hearts.  Never  have  they  learned  by  the  fate  of  an- 
other woman  that  love  is  not  immortal,  and  that  the  vows  of 
men,  as  Horace  says,  “ are  wafted  away  like  the  leaves  of  the 
forest."  Never  have  they  forgotten  these  vows,  and  on  the 
leaves  of  the  forest  do  they  still  erect  air-castles,  which  they 
fondly  hope  will  stand  forever. 

They  seated  themselves  on  a rustic  bench  that  had  been 
placed  in  a flowery  niche,  cut  out  of  the  hedge  that  skirted 
the  path  in  which  they  had  been  walking.  There  they  sat, 
hand  in  hand,  Charlotte’s  eyes  fastened  on  Schiller’s  noble, 
thoughtful  countenance,  with  an  expression  of  mingled  pain 
and  tenderness. 

Frederick,  you  have  nothing  to  say  to  me?" 

He  raised  his  eyes  slowly,  and  in  the  vehemence  of  her  own 
feelings  she  failed  to  observe  that  his  glance  was  somewhat 
embarrassed  and  anxious. 

“It  is  very  beautiful  here,"  he  said  in  low  tones.  “This 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


4^ 

solitude,  this  eloquent  silence  of  Nature,  is  very  delightful, 
particularly  when  I can  enjoy  it  at  your  side,  my  beloved 
friend.  Our  souls  are  like  two  harps  that  are  tuned  to  the 
same  tone,  and  are  so  near  together  that,  when  the  strings  of 
the  one  are  touched,  those  of  the  other  echo  a response  in  the 
same  accord.” 

“ God  grant  that  it  may  ever  be  so,  my  Frederick ! God 
grant  that  no  storm  break  in  upon  the  harmony  of  these  harps !” 

“ And  from  whence  should  such  a storm  come,  my  dear 
friend,  beloved  sister  of  my  soul?  No,  I am  sure  that  this 
can  never  be.  The  love  which  unites  us  is  exalted  above  all 
change  and  illusion.  I can  conceive  of  no  purer  or  more 
beautiful  relation  than  that  of  a brother  to  his  sister,  when 
they  are  loving,  and  live  in  a proper  understanding  of  their 
duties  to  each  other.  Let  this  thought  truly  console  us  and 
strengthen  our  hearts,  Charlotte,  if  other  wishes  entertained 
by  me  for  a long  time,  as  you  well  know,  should  never  be  ful- 
filled. Charlotte,  I am  not  one  of  those  whose  lives  fiow  on 
in  a smooth,  unbroken  current,  and  over  whose  desires  au- 
spicious stars  shine  in  the  heavens.  To  forego  has  ever  been 
my  fate,  and  you,  my  dearest,  have  given  me  painful  instruc- 
tion in  this  bitter  lesson.  You  will  remember  how  I knelt  at 
your  feet  in  Manheim,  passionately  entreating  you  to  sunder 
the  fetters  which  bound  you  to  the  unloved  man,  and  to  be- 
come mine,  my  wife!  It  was,  however,  in  vain;  and  now, 
when  your  heart  is  at  last  inclined  to  grant  the  fulfilment  of 
our  wishes  and  hopes — now,  when  you  would  dare  to  become 
my  wife,  another  obstacle  presents  itself  that  seems  to  render 
it  impossible  that  we  should  ever  be  outwardly  united.” 

“What  obstacle,  Frederick?  Who  can  prevent  it?” 

“Your  husband,  Charlotte.  It  seems  that  he  loves  you 
truly,  and  cannot  bear  to  entertain  the  thought  of  separation.” 

“Have  you  spoken  with  him,  Frederick?  Have  you  hon- 
estly and  openly  told  him  of  our  wishes,  and  have  you  en- 
treated him  to  fulfil  them?” 

“ I have  often  attempted  to  do  so,  but  he  always  avoided 


THE  TWO  POETS. 


425 


coming  to  the  point.  Whenever  he  observed  that  I was  en- 
deavoring to  turn  our  conversation  in  that  direction,  he  would 
break  off  abruptly  and  introduce  another  topic  of  conver- 
sation. This  convinced  me  that  he  loved  you  dearly,  and  the 
thought  that  I am  about  to  grieve  this  good  and  noble  man 
and  rob  him  of  a treasure  that  my  own  feelings  teach  me  must 
be  very  dear  to  him,  pains  me  to  the  heart’s  core.’' 

‘‘Frederick,”  said  she,  softly,  “how  fearful  it  is  to  see  the 
most  beautiful  flowers  of  spring  fade  and  die,  sometimes  cut 
off  by  a nipping  frost,  sometimes  parched  by  the  too  great 
warmth  of  the  sun!” 

“I  do  not  understand  you,  Charlotte,”  said  Schiller,  in  a 
little  more  confusion  than  was  entirely  compatible  with  his 
“ not  understanding.” 

“And  I,”  cried  she,  with  sparkling  eyes,  “I  wish  I did 
not  understand  you!  Tell  me,  Frederick,  is  your  heart  really 
mine?  Are  your  feelings  toward  me  unchanged?” 

He  raised  his  eyes,  and  gazed  into  her  agitated  countenance 
earnestly  and  thoughtfully.  “ Charlotte,  you  ask  a question 
which  God  alone  can  answer.  Who  can  say  of  himself  that 
he  has  a true  and  exact  knowledge  of  his  own  feelings?  All 
is  subject  to  change;  the  sea  has  its  ebb  and  flow,  the  sun 
rises  and  sets.  But  the  sea  ever  and  again  returns  to  the 
beach  it  had  before  deserted,  and  the  sun  ever  rises  again  after 
the  dark  night.  As  the  sea  and  sun,  with  all  their  changes,  are 
still  eternally  constant,  so  it  is  also  with  true  love.  At  times 
it  would  seem  as  though  it  were  withdrawing,  and  leaving  a 
bleak,  sandy  desert  behind;  in  the  next  hour  its  mighty 
waves  surge  back  impetuously  over  the  barren  strand,  chanting, 
in  holy  organ- tones,  the  song  that  love  is  eternal.” 

“Wondrous  words!”  cried  Charlotte;  “the  paraphrase  to  a 
glorious  song  which  I hope  the  poet  Frederick  Schiller  will 
one  day  sing  to  the  world!  But  I ask  the  poet,  whether  these 
are  also  the  words  of  the  man  Frederick  Schiller?  Did  the 
hymn  to  love,  just  uttered  by  the  poet’s  lips,  also  resound  in 
the  heart  of  the  man,  and  was  it  addressed  to  me?” 


426 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


“ And  why  these  questions,  my  dearest?  The  poet  and  the 
man  are  one,  and  the  utterances  of  the  poet’s  lips  are  the 
thoughts  of  the  man;  when  he  consecrates  an  enthusiastic 
hymn  to  love,  while  at  your  side,  be  assured  that  it  is  addressed 
to  you!” 

He  laid  his  arm  around  her  neck,  and  drew  her  head  to  his 
breast,  as  he  had  so  often  done  before  in  hours  of  tenderness. 
But  Charlotte  felt  that  there  was,  nevertheless,  a difference 
between  then  and  now:  the  arm  that  embraced  her  did  not 
rest  on  her  neck  with  the  same  warm  pressure  as  of  yore. 
She,  however,  repressed  the  sigh  that  had  nearly  escaped  her 
lips,  nestled  closer  to  his  bosom,  and  whispered  in  low  tones: 
‘‘ Frederick,  your  hymn  has  found  an  echo  in  my  heart; 
Frederick,  I am  very  grateful  to  God  for  your  love!” 

He  was  silent,  his  only  response  was  a warmer  pressure  of 
the  arm  entwined  around  her  neck.  Then  both  were  silent. 
Deep  stillness  reigned;  it  seemed  as  though  Nature  were  hold- 
ing divine  service  in  her  green  halls  under  the  dome  of 
heaven;  at  first  with  silent  prayer,  then  a joyous  song  of 
praise  resounded  from  the  hidden  chorus  in  the  foliage  of  the 
tall  trees,  until  the  breeze  rustled  through  the  leaves  in  holy 
organ-tones,  aud  silenced  the  feathered  songsters. 

To  these  deep  organ-tones,  to  this  rustling  of  the  wind  in 
the  foliage,  listened  the  two  lovers,  who  sat  there  on  the  little 
rustic  bench  in  a trance  of  delight  and  devotion.  Both  were 
silent,  and  yet  so  eloquent  in  their  silence.  He,  with  his  pale 
countenance  turned  upward,  gazing  intently  at  the  blue  dome 
of  heaven,  as  though  seeking  to  fathom  its  mysteries;  she, 
with  her  head  resting  on  his  bosom,  seeking  no  other,  now 
that  she  had  found  this  heaven.  But  the  wind  now  rustled 
through  the  trees  in  deeper  and  more  solemn  tones,  and 
awakened  Charlotte  from  her  sweet  repose.  A leaf  torn  from 
the  branches  by  the  wind  was  borne  against  her  cheek;  it 
glided  over  her  face  like  the  touch  of  a ghostly  finger,  and 
fell  into  her  hands,  which  lay  folded  in  her  lap.  She  started 
up  in  alarm,  and  looked  down  at  this  gift  of  the  wind  and  trees. 


THE  TWO  POETS. 


427 


They  had  given  her  a withered,  discolored  leaf.  Like  the 
harbinger  of  coming  autumn  had  this  withered  leaf  touched 
her  face,  and  rudely  awakened  her  from  her  heavenly  summer 
dream. 

“A  bad  omen,”  she  murmured,  tearing  the  leaf  to  pieces 
with  her  trembling  fingers. 

“What  does  this  murmuring  mean,  Charlotte?”  asked 
Schiller,  who  had  been  completely  absorbed  in  his  own 
thoughts,  and  had  not  observed  this  little  by-play  in  the  great 
tragedy  of  the  heart.  “ What  alarmed  you  so  suddenly?” 

“Nothing,  it  is  nothing,”  said  she,  rising.  “Come,  my 
friend,  let  us  go ; I fear  that  a storm  is  gathering  in  the 
heavens.” 

He  looked  up  at  the  clear  blue  sky  in  amazement.  “ I do 
jiot  see  a single  cloud.” 

“ So  much  the  better,  Frederick !”  rejoined  Charlotte, 
quickly,  “so  much  the  better!  Nothing  will  therefore  pre- 
vent our  taking  the  contemplated  drive  to  Eudolstadt.” 

Her  large  eyes  fastened  a quick,  penetrating  glance  on  his 
countenance  while  uttering  these  words,  and  she  saw  that  he 
colored  slightly,  and  avoided  encountering  her  gaze. 

“We  will  carry  out  our  intention  of  driving  to  Eudolstadt 
to-morrow,  will  we  not,  my  friend?  I have  been  promising 
to  pay  Madame  von  Lengefeld  a visit  for  a long  time,  and  it 
will  afford  me  great  pleasure  to  see  her  two  daughters  again. 
Caroline  von  Beulwitz  is  a noble  young  woman,  and  bears  the 
cruel  fate  entailed  upon  her  by  her  unfortunate  marriage  with 
true  heroism.  At  the  side  of  this  matured  summer-rose 
stands  her  sister  Charlotte,  like  a fair  young  blossom  of  the 
spring-time.” 

Schiller,  his  countenance  radiant  with  pure  joy,  gave  Char- 
lotte a tender,  grateful  look ; and  this  look  pierced  her  heart, 
and  kindled  the  consuming  fiames  of  jealousy.  Poor  Char- 
lotte ! The  wind  had  dashed  a withered  autumn-leaf  against 
her  face,  and  but  now  she  had  called  the  woman  who  was  hence- 
forth to  be  her  rival  “ a fair  young  blossom  of  the  spring-time.  ” 
28 


428 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


‘‘  How  beautifully  you  paint  with  a few  strokes  of  the  brush, 
Charlotte!”  said  Schiller,  gayly.  “ Your  portrait  is  an  excel- 
lent one,  and  portrays  Madame  von  Lengefeld’s  daughters  as 
they  really  are.  Caroline,  as  the  full-blown  rose,  and  Char- 
lotte as  a lovely,  fragrant  violet.” 

‘‘  And  which  of  these  flowers  do  you  most  admire?” 

“It  is  hard  to  choose  between  them,”  replied  Schiller, 
laughing.  “It  is  best  to  admire  them  together;  I can 
scarcely  conceive  of  their  being  separated ; separation  would 
destroy  the  harmony  of  the  picture!” 

Charlotte  felt  relieved.  Then  he  loved  neither.  His  heart 
had  not  chosen  between  them. 

“I  am  so  glad,”  said  she,  “that  my  friends  chance  to  be 
yours  also!  How  did  you  become  acquainted  with  the  Von 
Lengefeld  family?” 

“We  are  old  acquaintances  I”  replied  Schiller,  smiling. 
“ I made  the  acquaintance  of  these  ladies  four  years  ago 
while  residing  in  Madame  von  AVollzogen’s  house,  soon  after 
my  flight  from  Stuttgart,  and  it  was  her  son,  my  friend,  Wil- 
liam von  Wollzogen,  who  took  me  to  see  them  in  Rudolstadt.”  * 

“ Rumor  says  that  Mr.  William  von  Wollzogen  loves  his 
cousin  Caroline  devotedly.” 

“And  for  once,  rumor  has,  as  I believe,  told  the  truth. 
Wollzogen  loves  his  beautiful  cousin  passionately.” 

“ And  Caroline,  does  she  love  him?” 

“ Who  can  fathom  the  heart  of  this  noble  woman ! Her 
lips  are  sealed  by  the  solemn  vow  which  united  her  with  her 
unloved  husband,  and  Caroline  von  Beulwitz  is  too  noble  and 
chaste  a woman  to  become  untrue  even  to  an  unloved  hus- 
band, and — ” Schiller  hesitated ; he  now  felt  how  deeply  his 
words  must  have  wounded  the  woman  who  stood  at  his  side — 
the  woman  over  whom  he  had  just  pronounced  judgment. 
But  women  have  a wonderful  knack  of  not  hearing  what  they 
do  not  wish  to  hear,  and  of  smiling  even  when  stabbed  to  the 
heart. 

* Schiller’s  Life,  by  Caroline  von  Wollzogen,  p.  115. 


THE  TWO  POETS. 


429 


Charlotte  von  Kalb  smiled  on  Schiller  as  though  his  words 
had  not  wounded  her  in  the  slightest  degree. 

And  has  Charlotte,  has  this  poor  child,  at  last  recovered 
from  her  unhappy  love?  Have  the  bleeding  wounds  of  her 
young  heart  at  last  been  healed?’' 

Madame  von  Kalb,  her  countenance  wreathed  in  smiles,  had 
drawn  the  dagger  from  her  own  heart  and  plunged  it  into  her 
lover’s.  “Paete,  Paete,  non  dolet!” 

He  felt  the  blow  and  found  it  impossible  to  force  a smile  to 
his  lips.  What  do  you  mean?”  asked  he,  gloomily.  “ Who 
has  dared  to  wound  the  heart  of  this  fair  girl?” 

I am  surprised,  indeed,  that  you  should  have  heard  noth- 
ing of  this  affair,  my  dear  friend,”  said  Charlotte,  the  smile 
on  her  lips  becoming  more  radiant  as  she  felt  that  the  dagger 
was  entering  deeper  and  deeper.  ‘‘  Charlotte  von  Lengefeld 
was  affianced  to  a noble  young  man  whom  she  loved  devotedly, 
and  it  was  the  most  ardent  wish  of  both  to  be  united  for  life. 
But,  unfortunately,  the  wealth  of  their  feelings  formed  a cut- 
ting contrast  to  the  poverty  of  their  outward  circumstances. 
Madame  von  Lengefeld,  a lady  of  experience  and  discretion, 
informed  the  lovers  that  their  union  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion, as  they  were  both  poor.  Yielding  to  stern  necessity  they 
separated,  although  with  many  tears  and  bleeding  hearts. 
The  young  man  entered  the  Hessian  army  and  went  to  Amer- 
ica, never  to  return.  The  young  girl  remained  behind  in 
sorrow  and  sadness,  and,  as  it  is  said,  took  a solemn  vow 
never  to  marry  another,  as  fate  had  separated  her  from  the 
man  she  loved.” 

And  after  Charlotte,  with  the  cruelty  characteristic  of  all 
women  when  they  love  and  are  jealous,  had  dealt  this  last 
blow,  she  smiled  and  gave  her  lover  a tender  glance.  But  his 
countenance  remained  perfectly  composed,  and  Charlotte’s 
narrative  seemed  rather  to  have  appealed  to  the  imagination 
of  the  poet  than  to  the  heart  of  the  man. 

^^It  is  true,”  said  he,  softly,  ^^each  human  heart  furnishes 
material  for  a tragedy.  All  life  is,  in  reality,  nothing  more 


430 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


than  a grand  tragedy,  whose  author  is  the  Eternal  Spirit  of 
the  universe.  We,  little  children  of  humanity,  are  nothing 
more  than  the  poor  actors  to  whom  this  Eternal  Spirit  has 
given  life  for  no  other  purpose  than  that  we  might  play  the 
roles  which  He  has  assigned  us.  We  poor  actors  fancy  our- 
selves independent  beings,  yes,  even  the  lords  of  creation, 
and  talk  of  free  agency  and  of  the  sublime  power  of  the 
human  will.  This  free  agency  is  nothing  more  than  the  self- 
worship of  the  poor  slave. — Come,  Charlotte,”  cried  Schiller, 
suddenly  awakening  from  his  thoughtful  contemplation; 
‘‘  come,  my  dear  friend,  let  us  go.  Thoughts  are  burning  in 
my  heart  and  brain,  the  poet  is  being  aroused  within  the  man. 
I must  write ; work  only  can  restore  me  to  peace  and  tran- 
quillity!” 

“ Do  you  no  longer  find  peace  and  tranquillity  with  me, 
Frederick?  Have  they  ceased  to  ring  the  festive  bells  of  our 
union  of  hearts?  Do  they  no  longer  call  our  souls  together, 
that  they  may  impart  light  and  warmth  to  each  other  like  two 
rays  of  sunshine?” 

“ Charlotte,  souls  too  are  untuned  at  times,  although  the 
accord  of  love  is  ever  the  same.  Eemember  this,  and  do  not 
be  angry  if  storms  should  sometimes  break  in  upon  the  har- 
mony of  our  souls.” 

“ I am  never  angry  with  you,”  said  she,  in  tones  of  mingled 
sadness  and  tenderness.  “ Your  peace  and  your  happiness  is 
all  I desire,  and  to  give  you  this  shall  be  the  sole  endeavor  of 
my  whole  life.  I believe  that  this  is  the  holy  mission  with 
which  fate  has  entrusted  m , and  for  which  I have  been  placed 
in  the  world.  To  do  my  utmost  to  add  to  your  happiness  and 
to  give  joyousness  to  your  heart  and  gayety  to  your  soul. 
Yes,  you  shall  be  gay!  Your  good  genius  smiles  on  your 
labors  and  relieves  the  laurel-crowned  head  of  the  poet  of  all 
care,  giving  him  honor  and  glory.  But  I — I will  give  you 
liappiness  and  gayety,  for  I love  you;  and  you,  you  have  told 
me  a thousand  times  that  you  loved  me,  and  that  my  heart 
was  the  home  of  your  happiness.  I will  believe  this  sweet  as- 


THE  FIRST  MEETING. 


431 


surance,  Frederick,  and  will  hold  fast  to  it  forever  and.  ever- 
more. I will  look  into  the  future  with  a glad  heart,  hoping 
that  we  may,  at  last,  overcome  all  obstacles  and  belong  to  each 
other  wholly.  You  say  that  my  husband  always  avoids  this 
subject,  refusing  to  understand  you.  I will  compel  him  to 
understand  us.  I,  myself,  will  tell  him  of  our  hopes  and. 
wishes!’' 

“ No,  Charlotte,”  said  he,  “ this  duty  devolves  upon  me!  A 
time  will  come  when  all  his  endeavors  to  avoid  this  subject 
will  be  futile,  and  I will  avail  myself  of  this  moment  to  speak 
for  us  both.  Do  not  look  at  me  so  doubtingly,  Charlotte. 
You  have  instructed  me  in  the  trying  art  of  patience ! Be 
patient  yourself,  and  never  forget  that  the  stars  of  our  love 
will  shine  forever!” 


CHAPTER  VIL 

THE  FIRST  MEETING. 

Ok  the  next  morning  Schiller  and  Madame  von  Kalb  drove 
to  Rudolstadt  to  pay  the  Lengefeld  family  a visit.  Charlotte 
did  not  fail  to  observe  that  Schiller’s  countenance  grew 
brighter  and  brighter  the  nearer  they  approached  the  little 
Thuringian  village,  that  was  so  beautifully  situated  in  the 
midst  of  wooded  hills. 

Madame  von  Lengefeld  received  her  welcome  guests,  at  the 
door  of  her  pretty  little  house,  with  dignity  and  kindness. 
Behind  her  stood  her  two  lovely  daughters ; the  eyes  of  both 
fastened  on  Frederick  Schiller,  to  whom  they  extended  their 
hands,  blushingly  bidding  him  welcome. 

Charlotte  von  Kalb,  although  conversing  in  an  animated 
manner  with  Madame  von  Lengefeld,  nevertheless  listened  to 
every  word  Schiller  uttered,  and  observed  his  every  glance. 
She  heard  him  greet  the  two  sisters  with  uniform  cordiality, 
and  she  saw  that  his  gaze  rested  on  both  with  the  same  kind- 


432 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


liness.  Madame  von  Kalb’s  countenance  assumed  a more  joy- 
ous expression,  and  a voice  in  her  heart  whispered,  exultingly : 
“ He  does  not  love  her,  he  has  no  preference  for  either  one  of 
them.  He  told  me  the  truth,  he  entertains  a brother’s  affec- 
tion for  tliem^  but  his  tenderness  and  love  are  for  me  I And 
now  that  her  heart  had  come  to  this  joyful  conclusion,  Char- 
lotte von  Kalb’s  whole  manner  was  gay  and  animated;  she 
laughed  and  jested  with  the  two  young  ladies,  was  devoted  in 
her  attentions  to  Madame  von  Lengefeld,  and  treated  Schiller 
with  the  most  tender  consideration.  Her  conversation  was 
very  gay  and  witty,  and  the  most  piquant  and  brilliant  re- 
marks were  constantly  falling  like  sparkling  gems  from  her 
smiling  lips. 

“ How  Intelligent  and  amiable  this  lady  is!”  said  the  elder 
of  the  two  sisters,  Caroline  von  Beulwitz,  to  Schiller,  with 
whom  they  were  walking  in  the  flower-garden,  behind  the» 
house,  while  dame  von  Kalb  remained  with  Madame  vou 
Lengefeld  in  the  parlor. 

Schiller  walked  between  the  sisters,  a pretty  snow-white 
hand  resting  on  either  arm.  His  countenance  shone  with 
happiness,  and  his  step  was  light  and  buoyant.  ‘‘  I should 
like  to  ascend  straightway  into  Heaven  with  you  two,”  said 
he,  joyously;  “and  I think  it  highly  probable  that  I will  do 
so  directly.  Nothing  would  be  impossible  for  me  to-day,  and 
it  seems  to  me  as  though  Heaven  had  descended  to  earth,  so 
that  I would  have  no  obstacles  to  overcome,  and  could  walk 
right  in,  with  you  two  ladies  on  my  arms.” 

“ Then  let  us  return  to  the  house  at  once,  in  order  to  guard 
against  any  such  ascension,”  said  Caroline  von  Beulwitz, 
smiling. 

“Oh,  Caroline,”  exclaimed  Charlotte,  laughing  joyously, 
“ I wish  we  could  take  this  flight  to  Heaven ! How  surprised 
they  would  be,  and  how  they  would  look  for  us,  while  we 
three  were  taking  a walk  up  there  in  the  clouds!” 

“ And  how  angry  Madame  von  Kalb  would  be  with  us,  for 
having  enticed  her  dear  friend  away !”  said  Caroline,  ironicallyo 


THE  FIRST  MEETING. 


43S 


‘‘  I would  enjoy  it  all  the  more  on  that  very  account,”  rejoined 
Charlotte,  laughing. 

“ And  I,  too,”  protested  Schiller.  “ It  would  he  very  pleas» 
ant  if  we  could  sometimes  cast  aside  all  earthly  fetters  and 
rise,  like  the  bird,  high  above  the  noisy,  sorrowing  earth,  and 
float  in  the  sunbright  ether  with  the  loved  one  in  our  arms» 
My  dear  friends,  why  not  make  this  ascension  to-day?” 

To-day!  no,  not  to-day,”  said  Charlotte,  exchanging  a 
meaning  glance  with  her  sister.  ‘‘  It  will  not  do  to  leave  the 
earth  to-day,  will  it,  Caroline?  We  expect  to  have  too  pleas- 
ant a time  here  below  to  think  of  making  the  ascension  to- 
day!” 

“What  does  this  mystery — what  do  these  sly  glances 
mean?”  asked  Schiller.  “ Something  extraordinary  is  about 
to  occur.  Tell  me,  Lolo,  what  does  all  this  mean?” 

“I  will  tell  nothing,”  said  Charlotte,  laughing  merrily, 
and  shaking  her  brown  locks.  “ It  is  useless  to  ask  me.” 

“ But  you,  dear  Caroline,  on  whose  sweet  lips  the  truth  and 
goodness  are  ever  enthroned,  you,  at  least,  will  tell  me 
whether  I am  wrong  in  supposing  that  a mystery  exists  that 
will  be  unravelled  to-day.” 

“Yes,  my  dear  friend,”  said  she,  smiling,  “there  is  a little 
surprise  in  store  for  you,  but  I hope  you  are  satisfled  that  we 
would  never  do  any  thing  that — ” 

“And  I believe,”  said  her  younger  sister,  interrupting  her, 
“ I believe  that  the  solution  of  this  mystery  is  at  hand,  for  I 
hear  a carriage  approaching.  Listen,  it  has  stopped  at  our 
door!  Yes,  this  is  the  mystery!  Come,  my  friend,  the  so- 
lution awaits  you!” 

She  was  about  to  lead  Schiller  to  the  house,  when  Caroline 
gently  drew  her  back.  “One  moment,  Lolo!  Tell  me,  my 
friend,  do  you  place  sufficient  confidence  in  us,  to  follow 
without  question  and  without  uneasiness,  even  when  we  con- 
fess that  we  are  leading  you  to  the  solution  of  a mystery?” 

Schiller  clasped  the  right  hands  of  the  two  sisters  and 
pressed  them  to  his  heart.  “ I will  gladly  and  proudly  follow 


434 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


you  wherever  you  may  choose  to  lead  me.  I place  such  con- 
fidence in  you  both  that  I could  lay  my  life  and  eternal  hap- 
piness in  your  dear  hands,  and  bid  defiance  to  all  the  mys- 
teries of  the  world!” 

But  yet  you  would  like  to  know  what  this  mystery  is, 
would  you  not?”  asked  Lolo. 

“ No,”  replied  Schiller,  with  an  expression  of  abiding  faith; 
“ no,  the  solution  of  the  mystery  which  my  fair  friends  have 
in  store  for  me  will  unquestionably  be  agreeable.  Let  us  go.” 

We  are  much  obliged  to  you  for  your  confidence,  Schil- 
ler,” said  Caroline.  “We  will,  however,  not  permit  you  to 
be  surprised,  as  the  other  ladies  had  determined  you  should 
be.  It  will  depend  upon  your  own  free-will  whether  you 
enter  into  the  plans  agreed  upon  by  your  friends,  or  not. 
Schiller,  you  heard  a carriage  drive  up  to  our  door  a few  mo- 
ments since?  Do  you  know  who  were  in  that  carriage? 
Madame  von  Stein  and  Goethe!” 

“ Is  not  that  a surprise?”  cried  Lolo,  laughing. 

“Yes,”  he  said,  with  an  expression  of  annoyance,  “yes,  a 
surprise,  but  not  an  agreeable  one.  The  Privy-Councillor 
Goethe  showed  no  desire  to  cultivate  my  acquaintance,  and  I 
would  not  have  him  think  that  I desire  to  intrude  myself  on 
his  notice.  If  he  deems  my  acquaintance  undesirable,  the 
world  is  wide  enough  for  us  both,  and  we  can  easily  avoid 
each  other.  As  much  as  I admire  Goethe’s  genius,  I am  not 
humble  enough  to  forget  that  I too  am  a poet  to  whom  some 
consideration  is  due.  Nothing  could  be  less  becoming  than 
for  Schiller  to  advance  while  Goethe  recedes,  or  even  stands 
still.” 

“But  this  is  not  so,  Schiller;  it  could  not  be!”  exclaimed 
Charlotte  earnestly,  while  Caroline  gazed  at  him  with  spar- 
kling eyes  as  though  rejoicing  in  his  proud  bearing  and  ener- 
getic words.  “ Join  with  me,  Caroline,  in  assuring  him  that 
is  not  the  case!  Tell  him  how  it  is.” 

“ My  friend,”  said  Charlotte,  in  a low  voice,  “ Goethe  knew 
as  little  of  your  presence  here  as  you  of  his.  The  two  ladies, 


THE  FIRST  MEETING. 


435 


Madame  von  Stein  and  Madame  von  Kalb,  arranged  the 
whole  affair^  and  we  were  only  too  glad  to  assist  them  in 
bringing  together  the  two  greatest  poets  of  our  day,  the  two 
noblest  spirits  of  the  century,  in  order  that  they  might  be- 
come acquainted,  and  lay  aside  the  prejudices  they  had  enter- 
tained concerning  each  other.  While  we  are  conversing  with 
you  here,  this  same  explanation  is  being  made  to  Goethe  by 
the  ladies  in  the  house.  Charlotte  von  Stein  is  also  there.^ 
and,  as  you  will  readily  believe,  holds  the  honor  of  her  be- 
loved friend  Schiller  in  too  high  estimation  to  permit  Goethe 
to  suppose  for  a moment  that  you  had  connived  at  this  meet- 
ing, or  were  anxious  to  make  an  acquaintance  which  he 
might  deem  undesirable.” 

“ Come,  my  friends,  let  us  return  to  the  house,”  said  Schil- 
ler, smiling  sadly.  ‘‘  It  is  but  proper  that  I should  make  the 
first  advances  to  my  superior  in  rank  and  ability,  and — ” 

He  ceased  speaking,  for  at  this  moment  Goethe  and  the  two 
Charlottes  appeared  on  the  stairway. 

“You  see,”  whispered  Caroline,  “Goethe  thinks  as  you  do, 
and  he,  too,  is  willing  to  make  the  first  advances.” 

In  the  meantime  Goethe  had  walked  down  into  the  garden, 
still  accompanied  by  the  two  ladies,  with  whom  he  was  en- 
gaged in  an  animated  conversation.  But  when  he  saw  Schil- 
ler approaching,  Goethe  hastened  forward  to  meet  him. 

“ Madame  von  Kalb  has  reproached  me  for  having  with- 
drawn so  abruptly  when  we  met  in  the  park  a few  days  since,” 
said  Goethe,  in  kindly  tones.  “ I admit  that  I was  wrong, 
but,  at  the  same  time,  I must  confess  that  it  did  not  seem  ap- 
propriate to  me  that  we  should  make  each  other’s  acquaintance 
under  such  circumstances — as  it  were  by  the  merest  chance.” 

“ And  yet  it  is  chance  again  that  enables  me  to  greet  the 
poet  Goethe,  to-day,”  replied  Schiller,  quickly. 

“ But  this  time  it  has  been  brought  about  by  fair  hands,” 
cried  Goethe,  bowing  gracefully  to  the  ladies,  “ and,  with  the 
ancients,  I exclaim:  “‘What  the  great  gods  vouchsafe  ca^' 
only  be  good  and  beautiful!’  ” 


436 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


But,  as  though  he  had  conceded  enough  to  his  friends’ 
wishes,  and  shown  Schiller  sufficient  consideration,  Goethe 
now  turned  again  to  the  ladies,  and  resumed  the  conversation 
in  which  he  had  been  engaged  on  entering  the  garden.  They 
had  been  questioning  him  about  Madame  Angelica  Kaufmann, 
the  painter,  and  Goethe  was  telling  them  of  her  life,  her  ge- 
nius, and  her  nobility  of  mind,  with  great  animation  and  in 
terms  of  warm  approval.  Afterward,  when  the  company  were 
assembled  around  the  table  at  dinner  in  the  garden  pavilion, 
Goethe,  at  Charlotte  von  Stein’s  request,  told  them  of  his 
travels,  of  the  Eternal  City,  and  of  that  charming  life  in 
Italy  which  he  considered  the  only  one  worthy  of  an  artist,  or 
of  any  really  intellectual  man.  Carried  away  with  enthu- 
siasm, his  countenance  shone  with  manly  beauty,  originating 
rather  from  his  inward  exaltation  than  from  any  outward  per- 
fection of  form  and  feature. 

The  ladies  were  fascinated  by  this  handsome  countenance, 
these  lustrous  eyes,  and  the  eloquent  lips  which  described 
sunny  Italy,  the  land  of  promise,  of  art  and  poetry,  in  such 
glowing  colors. 

Schiller  sat  there  in  silence,  listless,  his  eyes  cast  down, 
rarely  adding  a low  word  of  approval  to  the  enthusiastic  ap- 
plause of  the  ladies,  and  never  addressing  a question  or 
remark  to  Goethe ; nor  did  the  latter  ever  address  himself 
directly  to  Schiller,  but  spoke  to  all  with  the  air  of  a great 
orator  who  feels  assured  that  all  are  listening  to  his  words 
with  deference  and  admiration. 

“I  am  not  satisfied  with  our  success  to-day,''  sighed  Ma- 
dame von  Kalb,  while  returning  with  Schiller  to  Weimar  in 
the  evening.  I had  promised  myself  such  glorious  results 
from  this  meeting  with  Goethe.  I hoped  that  you  would  be- 
come friends,  learning  to  love  each  other,  but  now  you  seem 
to  have  passed  like  two  stars  that  chance  to  meet  on  their 
heavenly  course,  yet  journey  on  without  attracting  each  other. 
Tell  me,  at  least,  my  dear  friend,  how  you  were  pleased  wit? 
Goethe.’* 


THE  FIRST  MEETING. 


437 


‘‘  Ask  me  how  I am  pleased  with  a glacier,  and  whether  I 
feel  warm  and  cheerful  in  its  vicinity.  Yes,  this  Goethe  is 
a glacier,  grand,  sublime,  and  radiant,  like  Mount  Blanc,  but 
the  atmosphere  that  surrounds  him  is  cold,  and  the  little 
flowers  of  attachment  that  would  so  gladly  blossom  are  frozen 
by  his  grandeur.  To  be  in  Goethe’s  society  often,  would,  I 
confess,  make  me  unhappy.  He  never  descends  from  this 
altitude,  even  when  with  his  most  intimate  friends.  I be- 
lieve him  to  be  egotistic  in  an  eminent  degree.  He  possesses 
the  gift  of  enchaining  men,  and  of  placing  them  under  obli- 
gations to  himself,  by  little  as  well  as  great  attentions,  while 
he  alv/ays  manages  to  remain  unfettered  himself.  He  mani- 
fests his  existence  in  a beneficent  manner,  but  only  like  a 
god,  without  revealing  himself — this,  it  seems  to  me,  is  a 
consistent  and  systematic  rule  of  action,  based  on  the  highest 
enjoyment  of  self-love.  Men  should  not  permit  such  a being 
to  spring  into  existence  in  their  midst.  This,  I confess, 
makes  me  detest  him,  although  I love  his  intellect,  and  have 
a high  opinion  of  his  ability.’'  * 

But  you  will  yet  learn  to  love  him  as  a man,  Frederick.” 

“It  is  quite  possible  that  I may,”  said  Schiller,  thought- 
fully. “ He  has  awakened  a feeling  of  mingled  hatred  and 
love  in  my  bosom — a feeling,  perhaps,  not  unlike  that  which 
Brutus  and  Cassius  may  have  entertained  toward  Caesar.  I 
could  murder  his  spirit,  and  yet  love  him  dearly.”  f 

While  “ Brutus”  was  giving  utterance  to  this  feeling  of 
mingled  hatred  and  love,  “ Caesar”  was  also  pronouncing  judg- 
ment over  Brutus;”  this  judgment  was,  however,  not  a com- 
bination of  hatred  and  love,  but  rather  of  pride  and  contempt. 
The  hero  who  had  overcome  all  the  difficulties  of  the  road, 
and  whose  brow  was  already  entwined  with  the  well-deserved 
laurel,  may  have  looked  down,  from  the  sublime  height  which 
he  had  attained,  with  some  proud  satisfaction  and  pitying 

* Schiller’s  own  words. — See  “Schiller’s  Correspondence  with  Körner,”  vol.  ii., 

p.  21. 

tibid. 


438 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


contempt  upon  him  who  had  not  yet  overcome  these  diffi- 
culties, who  had  not  yet  vanquished  the  demons  who  opposed 
his  ascent. 

“My  dear  Wolf,''  said  Madame  von  Stein  to  Goethe,  while 
icturning  uO  Weimar,  “I  had  hoped  that  you  would  meet 
Schiller  in  a more  cordial  manner.  You  scarcely  noticed 
him." 

“ I esteem  him  too  highly  to  meet  him  with  a pretence  of 
cordiality  when  I really  dislike  him,"  replied  Goethe,  em- 
phatically. “ I have  an  antipathy  to  this  man  that  I neither 
can  nor  will  overcome." 

“ But  Goethe  is  not  the  man  to  be  influenced  by  antipathies 
for  which  he  has  no  good  reasons." 

“Well,  then,"  cried  Goethe,  with  an  outburst  of  feeling, 
such  as  he  had  rarely  indulged  in  since  his  return  from  Italy, 
“ well,  then,  I have  good  reasons.  Schiller  destroys  what  I 
have  toiled  to  create;  he  builds  up  what  I fancied  I had  over- 
thrown— this  abominable  revolution  in  the  minds  of  men,  this 
heaven-storming  conviviality,  this  wild  glowing,  and  reeling, 
so  very  indistinct  and  cloudy,  so  replete  with  tears,  sighs, 
groans,  and  shouts,  and  so  antagonistic  to  lucid,  sublime 
thought,  and  pure  enthusiasm.  His  ‘Eobbers’  I abhor — this 
Franz  Moor  is  the  deformed  creation  of  powerful  but  im- 
mature talent.  I found,  on  my  return  from  Italy,  that 
Schiller  had  flooded  Germany  with  the  ethic  and  theatrical 
paradoxes  of  which  I had  long  been  endeavoring  to  purify 
myself.  The  sensation  which  these  works  have  excited,  the 
universal  applause  given  to  these  deformed  creations  of  an  in- 
toxicated imagination,  alarm  me.  It  seems  to  me  as  though 
my  poetic  labors  were  all  in  vain,  and  had  as  well  be  dis- 
continued at  once.  For,  where  lies  the  possibility  of  stem- 
ming the  onward  tide  impelled  by  such  productions — such 
strange  combinations  of  genuine  worth  and  wild  form?  If 
Germany  can  be  inspired  by  the  robber,  Charles  Moor,  and 
can  relish  a monstrous  caricature  like  the  brutal  Franz  Moor, 
then  it  is  all  over  with  the  pure  conceptions  of  art,  which  I 


THE  FIRST  MEETING. 


439 


have  sought  to  attain  for  myself  and  my  poems — then  my 
labors  are  useless  and  superfluous,  and  had  best  be  discon- 
tinued.'' * 

But  you  are  speaking  of  Schiller’s  first  works  only,  my 
dear  friend;  his  later  writings  are  of  a purer  and  nobler 
nature.  Have  you  not  yet  read  his  ‘Don  Carlos?’  " 

I have,  and  I like  it  no  better  than  ‘The  Bobbers.  ’ It  is 
useless  to  attempt  to  reconcile  us  to  each  other.  Intellect- 
ually, we  are  two  antipodes,  and  more  than  one  diameter  of 
the  earth  lies  between  and  separates  us.  Let  us  then  be  con- 
sidered as  the  two  poles  that,  in  the  nature  of  things,  can 
never  be  united."  f 

‘^How  agitated  you  are,  my  dear  friend!"  sighed  Char- 
lotte. “ It  seems  there  is  still  something  that  can  arouse  you 
from  your  Olympian  repose  and  heartless  equanimity,  and  re- 
call you  to  earth." 

“‘Zfomo  sum^  nihil  humani  a me  alienum pnto^'^  " rejoined 
Goethe,  smiling.  “ Yes,  Charlotte,  I learned  in  Italy  to  ap- 
preciate the  vast  distance  between  myself  and  the  great  gods 
of  Olympus,  and  I say  with  all  humility:  ‘I  am  a man,  and  a 
stranger  to  nothing  that  is  human.’  " 

“I  wish  you  had  never  been  in  Italy,"  sighed  Charlotte. 

“And  I,"  rejoined  Goethe,  “I  wish  I had  never  left  Italy 
to  return  to  Germany,  and  to  exchange  a bright  sky  for  a 
gloomy  one." 

“How  cruel  you  are,  Goethe!"  cried  Charlotte,  bursting 
into  tears. 

“Cruel!"  repeated  he,  in  dismay.  “ Good  heavens ! are  we 
never  to  understand  each  other  again!  Does  Charlotte  no 
longer  sympathize  with  me  in  my  sorrows,  as  in  my  joys? 
Can  you  not  comprehend  the  deep  sadness  that  Alls  my  heart 
when  I think  of  Italy?" 

“ Certainly  I can,"  cried  Charlotte.  “ Since  you  told  me  of 
/our  love-affair  with  the  beautiful  Leonora,  I comprehend 


* Goethe’s  words.— See  “Goethe’s  Works,”  vol.  xxiii. 
t Goethe’s  words. 


440 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


and  understand  all.  I know  that  you  left  your  heart  in  Italy, 
and  that  it  is  the  longing  of  love  that  calls  you  back  to  the 
sunny  land  from  the  bleak  north.” 

He  gave  her  a lingering,  reproachful  look.  “ Charlotte,  it 
is  now  my  turn  to  call  you  cruel,  and  I can  do  so  with  perfect 
justice.  That  which  you  should  consider  the  best  proof  of 
my  love  and  friendship — the  unreserved  and  complete  con- 
fession I made  when  I told  you  of  this  affair — this  same  con- 
fession seems  rather  to  have  made  you  doubt  me,  than  to  have 
carried  the  conviction  to  your  heart  that  you  are  the  being  I 
love  most  dearly  on  earth!” 

‘^1  thank  God  that  I have  no  confession  to  make  to  you,” 
cried  Charlotte.  “ I have  not  forgotten  you  for  a moment. 
My  soul  and  heart  were  ever  true  to  you,  and,  while  you  were 
kneeling  at  the  feet  of  the  beautiful  Leonora,  I knelt  at  the 
feet  of  God,  and  entreated  Him  to  bless  and  preserve  the 
faithless  man  who  was  perhaps  betraying  me  at  that  very 
hour,  and  who  now  carries  his  cruelty  so  far  that  he  dares  to 
complain  and  lament  over  his  lost  Italian  paradise  in  my 
presence,  and — ” 

“ Charlotte,  do  not  speak  so,  I conjure  you,”  cried  Goethe, 
interrupting  her.  “ You  cannot  know  what  incalculable  pain 
your  words  inflict.  My  friend,  my  beloved,  is  nothing 
sacred?  is  every  temple  to  be  overthrown?  is  every  ideal  to  be 
destroyed?  Charlotte,  be  yourself  once  more;  do  not  give 
way  to  this  petty  jealousy.  Be  the  noble,  high-souled  woman 
once  more,  and  lay  aside  these  petty  weaknesses.  Know  that 
the  holy  bond  of  love  in  which  we  are  united  is  indestruc- 
tible, and  still  exists  even  when  fair  blossoms  of  earth  spring 
into  life  beside  it.  Be  indulgent  with  me  and  with  us  both, 
and  do  not  desire  that  I,  at  forty  years  of  age,  should  be  an 
ascetic  old  man,  dead  to  all  the  little  fleeting  emotions  of  the 
heart.” 

“These  sophistries  are  incomprehensible  to  me,”  said  she, 
sharply,  “ and  it  seems  to  me  that  what  you  call  fleeting 
emotions  of  the  heart  are  simply  infidelity  and  a desecration 


THE  FIRST  MEETING. 


441 


of  the  love  which  you  vowed  would  he  eternal  and  unchange- 
able.” 

Goethe  bowed  his  head  sadly.  ‘‘  It  really  looks  as  though 
we  could  no  longer  understand  each  other,”  said  he,  gently. 
“ I admit,  however,  that  I am  to  blame,  and  beg  you  to  par- 
don me.  In  the  future  I will  be  more  cautious.  I will  make 
no  more  communications  calculated  to  offend  you.” 

That  is,  you  will  withdraw  your  confidence,  but  you  will 
jiot  cease  to  do  that  which  must  offend  me.” 

His  countenance  quivered,  his  eyes  sparkled  with  anger, 
and  his  cheeks  turned  pale,  but  he  struggled  to  repress  the 
indignant  words  that  trembled  on  his  lips. 

Charlotte  turned  pale  with  alarm.  Goethe  looked  sternly 
on  his  beloved  for  the  first  time.  She  read  indifference  in 
his  features  for  the  first  time.  A loud  cry  of  anguish  escaped 
her  lips,  and  the  tears  gushed  from  her  eyes. 

Goethe  did  not  attempt  to  console  her,  but  sat  at  her  side 
in  silence,  his  gaze  resting  gloomily  on  her  countenance. 

It  is  a cruel  destiny  that  women  should  be  compelled  to  give 
vent  to  their  grief  in  tears,  for  their  beauty  is  seldom  en- 
hanced thereby,”  said  he  to  himself.  “ The  tears  of  offended 
love  are  becoming  in  youthful  faces  only,  and  Charlotte’s  is 
not  youthful  enough.  She  looks  old  and  ugly  when  she 
ories!” 

Poor  Charlotte ! 

Late  in  the  evening  of  this  day  Goethe  left  his  house 
through  a side  door  that  led  from  his  garden  into  a narrow 
little  street.  His  hat  was  pressed  down  over  his  forehead, 
and  a long  cloak  enveloped  his  figure.  In  former  days,  be- 
fore his  trip  to  Italy,  he  had  often  slipped  through  this  small 
door  in  the  early  hours  of  the  morning,  and  in  the  twilight, 
to  take  the  most  direct  and  quiet  route  to  his  beloved  Char- 
lotte ; the  side  door  had  also  been  often  opened  to  admit  the 
beautiful  Madame  von  Stein  when  she  came  to  visit  her  dear 
friend  Goethe.  To-day,  Goethe  had  waited  until  it  grew  so 
dark  that  it  was  impossible  that  his  curious  neighbors  could 


442 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


observe  his  departure,  and  on  this  occasion  he  did  not 
direct  his  footsteps  toward  the  stately  house  in  which  ma- 
dame  the  Baroness  von  Stein  resided.  lie  took  an  entirely 
different  direction,  and  walked  on  through  streets  and  alleys 
until  he  came  to  a poor,  gloomy,  little  house.  But  a light 
was  still  burning  in  one  window,  and  the  shadow  of  a grace- 
ful, girlish  figure  flitted  across  the  closed  blind.  Goethe 
tapped  twice  on  the  window,  and  then  the  shadow  vanished. 
In  a few  moments  the  door  was  cautiously  opened.  Had  any 
one  stood  near  he  would  soon  have  observed  two  shadows  on 
the  window-blind — two  shadows  in  a close  embrace. 


CHAPTEE  VIII. 

WILHELMIKE  RIETZ. 

They  were  victorious,  the  pious  Eosicrucians  and  Illumi- 
nati, who  held  King  Frederick  William  the  Second  entangled 
in  their  invisible  toils.  They  governed  the  land ; by  their 
unbounded  influence  over  the  king’s  mind  they  had  become 
the  real  kings  of  Prussia.  General  von  Bischofswerder  stood 
at  the  king’s  side  as  his  most  faithful  friend  and  invoker  of 
spirits.  Wöllner  had  been  ennobled  and  advanced  from  the 
position  of  chamberlain  to  that  of  a minister  of  Prussia,  and 
to  him  was  given  the  guidance  of  the  heart,  and  conscience  of 
the  nation.  This  promotion  of  Wöllner  to  the  position  of 
minister  of  all  affairs  connected  with  the  church  and  public 
schools,  took  place  at  the  end  of  the  year  1788,  and  the  first 
great  act  of  the  newly-appointed  minister  was  the  promuL 
gation  of  the  notorious  Edict  of  Faith,  intended  to  fetter  the 
consciences  of  men,  and  prescribing  what  doctrines  apper- 
taining to  God  and  religion  they  should  accept  as  true  and 
infallible.  They  were  no  longer  to  be  permitted  to  illumine 
the  doctrines  of  the  church  with  the  light  of  reason,  and  to 
reveal  what  it  was  intended  should  remain  enveloped  in  mys- 
tical darkness.  It  was  strictly  forbidden  to  subject  the  com- 


WILHELMINE  RIETZ. 


443 


mandments  of  the  church  and  the  doctrines  of  revealed  relig- 
ion to  the  fallacious  tests  of  reason.  Unconditional  and  im- 
plicit obedience  to  the  authorities  of  the  church  was  required 
and  enforced. 

But  the  minister  Von  Wöllner  was  far  too  shrewd  a man 
not  to  ho  fully  aware  that  this  edict  of  faith  would  be  received 
with  the  greatest  dissatisfaction  by  the  people  to  whom 
Frederick  the  Great  had  bequeathed  freedom  of  thought  and 
faith,  as  his  best  and  greatest  legacy.  He  had  fettered  reason 
and  intelligence  in  matters  appertaining  to  religion,  but  he 
knew  that  they  would  seek  revenge  in  severe  criticisms  and 
loud  denunciations  through  the  public  press.  It  was  neces- 
sary to  prevent  this,  hut  how  could  it  be  done?  Wöllner  de- 
vised the  means — the  censorship  of  the  press.  This  guillotine 
of  the  mind  was  erected  in  Prussia,  and  at  the  same  time  the 
good  King  of  France  and  Doctor  Guillotine  were,  from 
motives  of  humanity,  devising  some  means  of  severing  the 
heads  of  criminals  so  quickly  from  their  bodies  that  death 
would  be  instantaneous  and  painless.  Good  King  Louis  the 
Sixteenth  and  his  philanthropical  physician  invented  an  in- 
strument which  they  believed  would  answer  these  require- 
ments, and  baptized  it  Guillotine,’'  in  honor  of  its  inventor. 
Good  King  Frederick  William  caused  his  misanthropical  phy- 
sician Wöllner  to  erect  an  instrument  that  should  kill  the 
noblest  thoughts  and  mutilate  the  mind.  This  guillotine  of 
, the  mind,  called  censorship  of  the  press,  was  Wöllner ’s  sec- 
ond stroke  of  policy.  With  this  instrument  he  effectually 
destroyed  Frederick  the  Great’s  work  of  enlightenment;  and 
yet  this  same  pious,  holy,  orthodox  man  published  the 
“Works  of  Frederick  the  Great,”  the  royal  freethinker  and 
mocker  at  religion.  For  these  works  there  was,  however,  no 
censorship.  The  publication  of  Frederick  the  Great’s  writ- 
ings was  a source  of  great  profit  to  the  wily  minister  Von 
Wöllner,  who  worshipped  with  greater  devotion  at  another 
than  the  shrine  before  which  he  bowed  the  knee  in  the  church — 
at  the  shrine  of  mamm<M. 

29 


444 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


The  great  king  now  lived  in  his  writings  only ; the  men  who 
had  served  him  faithfully,  Count  Ilerzberg  above  all,  had  been 
dismissed  from  office,  and  were  powerless ; the  laws  which  ho 
had  made  to  protect  freedom  of  thought  were  annulled,  the 
light  which  he  had  diffused  throughout  his  kingdom  was  ex- 
tinguished, and  darkness  and  night  were  sinking  down  over 
the  minds  and  hearts  of  a whole  nation ! The  promise  which 
the  circle  directors  had  made  to  the  grand -kophta  on  the 
night  of  Frederick  the  Great’s  death  was  fulfilled:  “The 
kingdom  of  the  church  and  of  the  spirits  embraced  all  Prus- 
sia,  and  the  power  and  authority  of  the  government  were 
in  the  hands  of  the  pious  fathers.  The  invisible  church  and 
its  visible  priests  now  ruled  in  Prussia.  The  king  was  re- 
stored to  the  true  faith,  and  lay  in  the  dust  at  the  feet  of  the 
Invisibles,  who  ruled  him  and  guided  his  mind  and  conscience 
as  they  saw  fit.” 

There  were  still  a few  brave  men  left  who  refused  to  submit 
to  their  control,  and  bade  defiance  to  this  guillotine  of  censor- 
ship— men  who  warred  against  these  murderers  of  thought 
and  freedom.  There  was  Nicolai,  and  Büsching,  and  Leuch- 
senring,  the  former  instructor  of  the  prince  royal,  who  never 
wearied  of  warning  the  people,  and  who  unceasingly  en- 
deavored to  arouse  those  whom  the  pious  executioners  desired 
to  destroy.  “ Nicolai’s  Berlin  Monthly  Magazine”  was  the 
arena  of  these  warriors  of  enlightenment,  and  in  this  maga- 
zine the  combat  against  darkness  and  ignorance  was  still 
carried  on,  in  defiance  of  censorship  and  the  edict  of  faith. 
The  practical  and  intelligent  editor,  Nicolai,  still  attacked 
these  new  institutions  with  bitter  sarcasm ; the  warning  voice 
of  Leuchsenring  was  still  heard  denouncing  these  Eosicru- 
cians.  But  Wöllner’s  guillotine  vanquished  them  at  last,  and 
the  “ Berlin  Monthly  Magazine”  fell  into  the  basket  of  the 
censors,  as  the  heads  of  the  French  aristocrats  fell  into  the 
executioner’s  basket  when  severed  by  the  other  guillotine  in 
France. 

But  King  Frederick  William  the  Second  submitted  to  the 


WILHELMINE  RIETZ. 


445 


will  of  the  Invisibles,  and  obeyed  the  commands  of  the  holy 
fathers,  announced  to  him  through  their  representatives, 
Bischofswerder  and  Wöllner.  Let  these  men  rule,  let  them 
take  care  of  and  discipline  minds  and  souls ; the  king  has 
other  things  to  do.  The  minds  belong  to  the  Eosicrucians, 
but  the  hearts  are  the  king’s. 

In  her  palatial  residence,  “under  the  linden-trees,”  in  Ber- 
Kn,  sat  the  king’s  friend,  in  brilliant  attire,  her  hair  dressed 
with  flowers,  and  her  beautiful  neck  and  bare  arms  of  dazzling 
Whiteness  adorned  with  rich  jewelry.  She  was  reclining  on 
her  sofa,  and  gazing  at  her  reflection  in  a large  mirror  of 
Venetian  glass  that  stood  against  the  wall  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  boudoir;  the  frame  of  this  mirror  was  of  silver, 
richly  studded  with  pearls  and  rubies,  and  was  one  of  the 
king’s  latest  presents.  A proud  and  happy  smile  played  about 
her  full,  rosy  lips  as  she  regarded  the  fair  image  reflected  in 
this  costly  mirror. 

“I  am  still  beautiful,”  said  she,  “my  lips  still  glow,  and 
my  eyes  still  sparkle,  while  she  is  fading  away  and  dying. 
Why  did  she  dare  to  become  my  rival,  to  estrange  the  king’j^ 
heart  from  me?  She  well  knew  that  I had  been  his  beloved 
for  long  years,  and  that  the  king  had  solemnly  vowed  nevor 
to  desert  me ! She  dies  with  the  coronet  of  a countess  on  her 
pale  brow,  while  I still  live  as  Madame  Kietz — as  the  self- 
^yled  wife  of  a valet.  I have  life  and  health,  and,  although 
[ am  not  yet  a countess,  I can  still  achieve  the  coveted  title. 
Have  I not  sworn  that  I will  yet  become  either  a countess,  a 
duchess,  or,  perhaps,  even  a princess?  Neither  the  royal  wife 
of  the  right  nor  of  the  left  hand  shall  prevent  me ; while  I 
rise,  they  will  descend.  While  I am  riding  in  my  splendid 
equipage,  emblazoned  with  a coronet,  they  will  be  riding  to 
the  grave  in  funeral-cars.  And  truly,  it  seems  to  me  that  it 
must  be  more  agreeable  to  ride  in  an  equipage,  even  as  plain 
Madame  Eietz,  than  to  journey  heavenward  as  Countess 
Ingenheim.” 

She  burst  into  laughter  as  she  said  this,  and  saluted  her 


446 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


image  in  the  mirror  with  a playful  nod.  The  brilliants  and 
rubies  on  her  neck  and  arms  sparkled  like  stars  in  the  flood 
of  light  diffused  through  the  room  by  the  numerous  jets  of 
gas  in  the  splendid  chandeliers,  richly  adorned  with  crystal 
pendants.  This,  as  well  as  all  the  other  apartments  of  Wil- 
helmine  Eietz’s  residence,  was  furnished  with  a degree  of  lux- 
ury and  splendor  befitting  a royal  palace.  The  king  had  kept 
the  promise  made  to  his  darling  son,  Count  Alexander  von 
der  Mark,  in  Charlottenburg.  The  affectionate  father  had 
given  his  handsome  son  the  longed-for  palace  under  the  linden- 
trees;  and  the  young  count,  together  with  his  mother  and  sis- 
ter, had  taken  up  his  abode  in  this  palace.  But  the  little 
Count  von  der  Mark  had  not  long  enjoyed  the  pleasure  of 
standing  with  his  beautiful  mother  at  the  windows  of  his 
residence,  to  look  at  the  parades  which  the  king  caused  to  be 
held  there  on  his  account.  On  such  occasions  the  king  had 
always  taken  up  his  position  immediately  beneath  the  win- 
dows of  his  son’s  palace,  in  order  that  they  might  obtain  a 
better  view  of  the  troops.  The  little  count  had  worn  his  title 
and  occupied  his  palace  but  one  year,  when  he  died.*  The 
king’s  grief  had  been  profound  and  lasting,  and  never  had 
the  image  of  his  handsome  boy  grown  dim  in  the  heart  of  his 
royal  father.  The  loss  of  his  son  had  driven  Frederick  Wil- 
liam to  the  verge  of  despair,  and  Wilhelmine  had  been  com- 
pelled to  dry  her  own  tears  and  suppress  her  own  sorrow  in 
order  to  console  the  king.  Wilhelmine  Eietz  had  manifested 
so  much  love  and  tenderness  for  the  king  during  this  trying 
period,  and  had  practised  so  much  self-denial,  that  the  king’s 
love  and  admiration  for  his  “ dear  friend’’  had  been  greatly 
increased. 

“ You  are  a noble  woman,  and  a heroine,”  said  he.  “ Any 
other  woman  would  weep  and  lament — you  are  silent,  and 
your  lips  wear  a smile,  although  I well  know  what  pain  this 
smile  must  cost  your  tender  mother’s  heart.  Any  other 
woman  would  tremble  and  look  with  care  and  anxiety  into  the 

♦In  the  latter  part  of  the  year  1787. 


WILHELMINE  RIETZ. 


447 


future,  because  the  death  of  the  son  might  be  prejudicial  to 
her  own  position ; she  would  have  hastened  to  obtain  from  me 
an  assurance  that  she  should  not  suffer  in  consequence  of  this 
loss.  You  have  done  nothing  of  all  this;  you  have  wept  and 
sorrowed  with  me ; you  have  cheered  and  consoled  me,  and 
have  not  once  asked,  who  was  to  be  the  heir  of  my  little  Alex- 
ander, and  what  souvenir  he  had  left  you.” 

Wilhelmine  Eietz  shook  her  head,  and  smiled  sadly,  well 
knowing  how  becoming  this  smile  was  to  her  pale  coun- 
tenance. 

“I  need  no  souvenir  of  my  son,”  said  she;  ‘‘his  memory 
will  ever  live  in  my  heart.  I have  not  asked  who  Alexander’s 
heir  was  to  be,  because  I have  never  supposed  that  he  could 
have  left  an  inheritance,  for  all  that  I and  my  children  have 
belongs  to  the  king,  and  is  his  property,  as  we  ourselves  are. 
I have  not  trembled  for  my  own  security,  because  I confide  in 
my  king  and  master  as  in  my  God,  and  I feel  assured  that  he 
will  ever  observe  his  solemn  oath  and  will  never  abandon  me.” 

“No,  never,  Wilhelmine,”  cried  the  king.  “You  are  ; 
noble  woman!  You  are,  and  will  ever  remain,  my  dear, 
adored  friend,  and  my  love  for  you  will  be  more  enduring 
than  my  love  for  any  other  woman.  Lay  aside  all  care  and 
fear,  Wilhelmine,  and  confide  in  me.  All  the  efforts  and  in- 
trigues of  your  friends  to  injure  you  shall  be  unavailing.  All 
else  will  pass  away,  but  my  love  for  you  will  endure  until 
death ; and  no  woman,  though  I love  her  passionately,  will  be 
able  to  banish  you  from  my  side!” 

“Will  you  swear  this,  Frederick  William!  Will  you  lay 
your  finger  on  this  scar  on  my  hand  and  swear  that  my 
enemies  shall  never  succeed  in  banishing  me  from  your  side, 
and  that  you  will  ever  accord  me  a place  in  your  heart?” 

The  king  laid  his  hand  on  this  scar,  and  it  recalled  to  his 
memory  the  hour  in  which  Wilhelmine  had  intentionally 
given  her  hand  a wound  in  order  that  he  might  record  his  vow 
of  love  and  fidelity  in  her  own  blood.  “ I lay  my  hand  on 
this  scar,”  said  he^  “and  swear  by  the  memory  of  my  dear 


443 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


son,  Alexander,  that  I will  never  neglect  or  forget  his  mother, 
but  will  love,  honor,  and  cherish  her  until  the  end.  And 
here  is  a proof  that  I have  not  forgotten  you,”  cried  the  king, 
as  he  threw  his  arms  around  her  neck,  kissed  her  cheek,  and 
handed  her  a deed  of  the  palace  under  the  linden-trees,  and 
of  all  else  that  had  belonged  to  Count  Alexander  von  der  Mark. 

Wilhelmine  Eietz  and  her  daughter  continued  to  reside  in 
the  palace  under  the  linden-trees.  Her  house  was  one  of  the 
most  popular  resorts  in  Berlin,  and  the  most  select  and  in- 
telligent society  was  to  be  found  in  her  parlors.  To  be  sure 
the  rustle  of  an  aristocratic  lady’s  silk  robe  was  never  heard 
on  the  waxed  floors  of  this  stately  mansion,  but  Wilhelmine’s 
social  gatherings  were,  perhaps,  none  the  less  animated  and 
agreeable  on  that  account.  Her  guests  were  charmed  with 
her  vivacity,  brilliant  wit,  and  flne  satire,  and  the  most 
eminent  scholars,  artists,  and  poets,  esteemed  it  a great  honor 
to  be  permitted  to  frequent  Wilhelmine  Eietz’s  parlors.  She 
loved  art  and  science,  was  herself  somewhat  of  a poetess,  and 
possessed  above  all  else  a mind  capable  of  quickly  compre- 
hending what  she  saw  and  heard,  and  of  profiting  by  inter- 
course with  scholars  and  artists.  It  was  a favorite  plea  with 
the  gentlemen  who  visited  her  house,  that  Wilhelmine  Eietz 
was  the  protectress  of  art  and  science,  and,  moreover,  a very 
intelligent  lady,  of  whom  they  were  in  justice  compelled  to 
say  that  she  possessed  fine  sense,  much  knowledge,  and  very 
agreeable  manners. 

The  king  himself,  an  intellectual  man,  and  a patron  of  art 
and  science,  often  took  part  in  Madame  Eietz’s  social  gather- 
ings. In  her  parlors  he  was  sure  to  find  the  relaxation  and 
enjoyment  which  he  sought  in  vain  in  the  society  of  his  beau 
tiful  and  aristocratic  wife  of  the  left  hand. 

The  beautiful  Julie  von  Voss,  entitled  Countess  Ingenheim, 
had  never  forgiven  herself  for  having  at  last  yielded  to  the 
wishes  of  her  family,  to  the  entreaties  of  her  royal  lover,  and 
to  the  weakness  of  her  own  lieart,  by  consenting  to  become 
the  king’s  wife  of  the  left  hand,  although  a wife  of  the  right 


WILHELMINE  RIETZ. 


449 


hand  still  lived.  Her  reason  and  her  pride  told  her  that  this 
little  mantle  of  propriety  was  not  large  enough  to  hide  her 
humiliation.  Her  soul  was  filled  with  grief  and  remorse ; she 
felt  that  her  glittering,  apparently  so  happy  existence,  was 
nothing  more  than  a gilded  lie — nothing  more  than  shame, 
garnished  over  with  titles  and  honors. 

The  king  often  found  his  beautiful,  once  so  ardently  loved 
Julie  in  tears;  she  was  never  gay,  and  she  never  laughed. 
Indeed  she  often  went  so  far  as  to  reproach  herself  and  her 
royal  lover. 

But  tears  and  reproaches  were  ingredients  of  conversation 
which  were  by  no  means  pleasing  to  Frederick  William,  and 
he  fied  from  them  to  the  parlors  of  his  dear  friend,  Wilhel- 
mine,  where  he  was  certain  to  find  gayety  and  amusement. 

Wilhelmine  Eietz  thought  of  all  this  while  reclining  on  her 
sofa,  awaiting  the  arrival  of  invited  company — she  thought  of 
this  while  gazing  at  the  refiection  of  herself  (adorned  with 
jewelry  and  attired  in  a satin  dress,  embroidered  with  silver), 
in  the  magnificent  Venetian  mirror.  She  had  always  found 
these  conversations  with  her  image  in  a mirror  very  interest- 
ing, for  these  two  ladies  kept  no  secrets  from  each  other,  but 
were  friends,  who  imparted  their  inmost  thoughts  without 
prudery  and  hypocrisy. 

“You  will  yet  be  a countess,*’  said  Wilhelmine.  “Yes,  a 
countess,  and  whatever  else  you  may  desire.” 

The  lady  in  the  mirror  smiled,  and  replied:  “ Yes,  a count- 
ess, or  even  a princess,  but  certainly  not  one  who  heaps  re- 
proaches upon  herself,  and  dies  of  remorse ; nor  yet  one  of 
those  who  seek  to  reconcile  themselves  to  the  world,  and  to 
purchase  an  abode  in  heaven,  by  unceasing  prayer  and  costly 
alms-giving.  No,  I will  be  a countess  who  enjoys  life  and 
compels  her  enemies  to  bend  the  knee — who  seeks  to  reconcile 
herself  to  the  world  by  giving  brilliant  entertainments  and 
good  dinners,  and  cares  but  little  for  what  may  take  place 
after  her  death — a countess  who  exclaims  with  her  great 
model,  the  Marquise  de  Pompadour,  'Apres  mot)  le  düuge! 


450 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

HUSBAND  AND  WIFE. 

WiLHELMiNE  was  DOW  interrupted  in  her  animated  conver- 
sation with  her  reflection  by  the  abrupt  entrance  of  her  “ self- 
styled  husband/'  the  Chamberlain  Rietz. 

She  saw  him  in  the  mirror,  and  she  saw,  too,  how  the 
friend  with  whom  she  had  been  conversing,  colored  with  dis- 
pleasure and  frowned.  Without  rising,  or  even  turning  her 
head,  she  allowed  the  chamberlain  to  approach  until  he  stood 
in  front  of  her,  and  then  she  cried,  in  an  imperious  voice : 
“ Where  were  my  servants?  Why  do  you  come  unannounced 
to  my  presence?" 

Rietz,  the  king’s  chamberlain  and  factotum,  laughed 
loudly.  ^‘Por  fear  of  being  turned  away,  ma  belle,  and  be- 
cause I considered  it  more  appropriate  to  come  unannounced 
to  my  wife’s  presence.  Once  for  all,  my  dearest,  spare  me 
this  nonsense,  and  do  not  embitter  our  lives  unnecessarily! 
Let  your  courtiers,  your  dukes,  princes,  counts,  and  profes- 
sors, wait  in  the  antechamber,  and  come  announced,  if  you 
will,  but  you  must  receive  me  as  you  receive  the  king,  that 
is,  unannounced.  On  the  other  hand,  I promise  you,  never 
to  make  use  of  this  privilege  when  you  are  entertaining  com- 
pany, or  are  engaged  in  some  agreeable  little  Ute-ä-tete.  Are 
you  satisfled?  Is  this  agreed  upon?" 

“It  shall  be  as  you  say,"  said  Wilhelmine,  pointing  to  a 
stool  that  stood  near  the  sofa.  “ Seat  yourself  and  let  me 
know  why  you  honor  me  with  your  presence." 

But  Rietz,  instead  of  seating  himself  on  the  stool,  proceeded 
with  the  greatest  composure  to  roll  forward  a splendid  arm- 
chair, on  the  back  of  which  a royal  coronet  was  emblazoned. 

“ I suppose  I am  entitled  to  use  this  chair  when  the  king  is 
not  present,"  said  he,  seating  himself ; “moreover,  I like  to 
sit  comfortably,  I am  installed,  and  thft  conference 


HUSBAND  AND  WIFE. 


451 


between  the  two  crowned  heads  can  begin.  Do  you  know, 
or  have  you  the  slightest  conception  of,  what  the  subject  of 
this  conference  will  be?” 

‘‘No,”  replied  Wilhelmine,  placing  her  little  foot  with  its 
gold-embroidered  satin  slipper  on  the  stool,  and  regarding  it 
complacently,  “ no,  not  the  slightest,  but  I beg  you  to  tell  me 
quickly,  as  I am  expecting  company.” 

“ Ah,  expecting  company ! Then  I will  begin  our  confer- 
ence, Carissima,  by  telling  you  to  order  your  servant  to  in- 
form your  visitors  that  you  have  been  suddenly  taken  ill  and 
beg  to  be  excused.” 

“ Before  giving  this  command  I must  first  request  you  to 
give  me  your  reasons.” 

“My  reasons?  Well,  I will  give  you  one  reason  instead  of 
many.  It  might  not  be  agreeable  to  your  guests  to  have  the 
glass  from  the  window-panes  and  the  stones  which  have  shat- 
tered them  flying  about  their  heads  in  your  parlor.” 

“My  friend,”  said  Wilhelmine,  still  regarding  the  tips  of 
her  feet,  “ if  you  feel  an  irresistible  inclination  to  jest,  you 
will  find  an  appreciative  audience  among  the  lackeys  in  my 
antechamber.” 

“ Thank  you,  I prefer  to  converse  seriously  with  my  wife  in 
the  parlor.  But  if  you  desire  it  I will  ring  for  one  of  these 
impudent  rascals,  and  order  him,  in  your  name,  to  admit  no 
visitors.  Moreover,  it  would  be  well  to  have  the  inner  shut- 
ters of  all  the  windows  of  your  palace  closed.  The  latter 
must,  of  course,  be  sacrificed,  but  the  shutters  will,  at  least, 
prevent  the  stones  from  entering  your  apartments  and  doing 
any  further  damage.  Are  your  windows  provided  with 
shutters?” 

“I  see  you  are  determined  to  continue  this  farce,”  said 
Wilhelmine,  shrugging  her  shoulders.  “Without  doubt  you 
have  wagered  with  some  one  that  you  could  alarm  me,  and 
the  closing  of  the  shutters  is  to  be  the  evidence  that  you  have 
won  the  wager.  Such  is  the  case,  is  it  not?” 

“No,  Carissima,  such  is  not  the  case,  and  I beg  you  to 


452 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


play  the  role  of  the  undaunted  heroine  no  longer;  it  becomes 
you  very  well,  but  you  cannot  excite  my  admiration  and — ” 

“Nor  have  I any  such  intention,”  said  she,  leaning  back 
on  the  sofa,  and  stretching  herself  like  a tigress  that  appears 
to  be  quite  exhausted,  but  is,  nevertheless,  ever  ready  to 
spring  upon  the  enemy. 

“Enough  of  this,  my  friend!”  cried  the  chamberlain,  im- 
patiently. “ Listen ! If  you  consider  it  a bagatelle  to  have 
your  palace  demolished,  and  yourself  accused  of  being  a 
poisoner,  it  is,  of  course,  all  the  same  to  me,  and  I have  noth- 
ing more  to  say,  except  that  I was  a fool  to  consider  it  my 
duty  to  warn  you,  because  we  had  formed  an  alliance,  offen- 
sive and  defensive,  and  because  I could  not  look  on  calmly 
while  your  enemies  were  plotting  your  destruction.” 

The  tigress  had  bounded  from  her  lair,  her  eyes  glowing 
with  great  excitement. 

“ You  are  in  earnest,  Eietz?  This  is  not  one  of  your  jokes? 
My  enemies  are  plotting  my  destruction ! They  are  about  to 
attack  me ! Speak,  be  quick ! What  was  it  you  said  about 
poisoning?  Do  they  accuse  me  of  being  a poisoner?” 

“ Certainly  they  do,  and  I am  glad  that  this  magical  word 
has  recalled  my  sleeping  beauty  to  life.  Yes,  your  enemies 
accuse  you  of  being  a poisoner.  It  is  truly  fortunate  that  I 
have  spies  in  every  quarter,  who  bring  me  early  intelligence 
of  these  little  matters.” 

“ And  whom  have  I poisoned?” 

“ Countess  Ingenheim,  of  course.  Whom  should  you  have 
poisoned  but  your  rival?” 

“My  rival!”  repeated  Wilhelmine,  with  a contemptuous 
shrug  of  her  shoulders.  “ Countess  Ingenheim  was  ill.  Is 
she  worse?” 

“ Countess  Ingenheim  is  dying!” 

“ Dying!”  echoed  Wilhelmine,  and  a ray  of  joy  gleamed  in 
the  eyes  of  the  tigress,  but  she  quickly  repressed  it.  “ This 
is,  of  course,  an  exaggeration  of  the  physicians,  who  will 
afterward  attribute  to  themselves  the  merit  of  having  effected 


HUSBAND  AND  WIFE. 


453 


her  recovery  from  so  hopeless  a condition.  I have  heard  of 
instances  of  this  kind  before.  Four  days  ago  the  countess 
was  comparatively  well;  I met  her  in  the  king’s  little  box  at 
the  theatre,  on  which  occasion  her  affability  and  condescen- 
sion were  truly  surprising.** 

“Yes,  and  it  is  alleged  by  your  enemies  that  you  com- 
mitted the  crime  on  that  very  occasion.  The  countess  com- 
plained of  heat  and  thirst,  did  she  not?’* 

“Yes,  she  did,  and  when  she  sank  back  in  her  chair, 
almost  insensible,  the  king  begged  me  to  assist  her.** 

I “ To  which  you  replied  that  a composing  powder  was  what 
she  required,  and  that  you,  fortunately,  always  carried  a box 
of  these  powders  in  your  pocket.  Hereupon  you  opened  the 
door,  and  ordered  one  of  the  lackeys  who  stood  in  the  entry 
to  bring  you  a glass  of  water  and  some  sugar.  When  he 
brought  it,  you  took  a small  box  from  your  pocket,  and 
emptied  a little  paper  of  white  powder  into  the  water ; when 
this  foamed  up,  you  handed  the  glass  to  the  countess,  who 
immediately  drank  its  contents.  Am  I accurate?” 

“ You  are,  and  I admire  this  accuracy  all  the  more,  because 
no  one  was  present  in  the  box  but  us  three.** 

“ You  forget  the  lackey  who  brought  the  water,  and  saw 
you  pour  the  powd?er  into  the  glass.  This  morning  the 
countess  was  suddenly  attacked  with  a violent  hemorrhage ; 
whereupon  the  lackey  immediately  told  her  brother.  Minister 
von  Voss,  the  whole  story.  Her  high  connections  and  the 
entire  court  have  been  aroused,  and  if  the  countess  should 
die  to-day,  as  her  physicians  say  she  will,  a storm  will  arise 
out  of  this  glass  of  water,  with  the  aid  of  which  your  enemies 
hope  to  hurl  you  from  your  eminence  and  consign  you  to 
prison.” 

“Foolish  people!”  said  Wilhelmine,  contemptuously. 
“ The  king  will  not  only  discredit  their  revelations,  but 
will  also  hold  them  to  a strict  account  for  their  slander.  Let 
this  be  my  care.” 

“ My  dearest,  before  proceeding  to  punish  these  slanderers. 


454 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


I would  advise  you  to  consider  your  own  safety  a little.  I 
tell  you  this  matter  is  graver  than  you  suppose,  my  proud, 
undaunted  lady.  The  whole  pack  is  let  loose,  and  Bischofs- 
werder and  Wöllner  are  lashing  the  conspirators  on,  and 
heaping  fuel  on  the  flames.  They  immediately  convoked  a 
meeting  of  the  holy  brotherhood,  and  issued  a secret  order. 
This  order  I have  seen.  You  must  know  that  I was  received 
into  this  holy  band  some  two  weeks  since,  as  serving  brother 
of  the  outer  temple  halls.  What  do  you  think  of  the  title, 
‘serving  brother  of  the  outer  temple  halls?’  ” 

And  the  chamberlain  burst  into  so  loud  and  mocking  a peal 
of  laughter,  that  his  colossal  stature  fairly  trembled. 

“ Suppress  your  merriment  for  a moment,  if  you  please,  and 
tell  me  how  this  secret  order  of  the  Eosicrucians  reads." 

The  chamberlain’s  countenance  quickly  assumed  an  air  of 
gravity.  “The  order  is  as  follows:  ‘All  the  brothers  serving 
m the  outer  temple  halls  will  repair,  at  ten  o’clock  this  even- 
ing, to  your  palace,  for  the  purpose  of  engaging  in  the 
charming  recreation  of  battering  your  windows  with  the  stones 
that  lie  piled  up  in  great  plenty  in  this  vicinity,  in  places 
where  the  pavement  is  being  renewed ; while  so  occupied,  they 
are  to  cry — ‘Murderess!  poisoner!  Curses  upon  her!  Down 
with  this  murderess!’  A charming  chorus,  my  angel  of 
innocence!" 

“ Yes,  a chorus  over  which  the  angels  in  heaven  will  re- 
joice, even  if  they  should  not  be  such  angels  of  innocence  as  I 
am  in  this  affair.  I thank  you  for  this  communication ; it 
is  really  of  great  importance." 

“ I must,  however,  beg  you,  my  dear  madame,  to  take  this 
fact  into  consideration.  By  making  this  communication,  I 
not  only  imperil  my  salvation,  but  am  probably  already  wholly 
lost,  and  have  certainly  forfeited  all  prospects  of  ever  enter- 
ing the  sanctuary  of  the  temple,  and  becoming  an  Invisible 
Brother.  Each  brother  is  required,  on  his  admission,  to 
register  a fearful  oath,  to  the  effect  that  he  will  never, 
although  his  own  life  or  that  of  his  parents  or  children  should 


HUSBAND  AND  WIFE. 


455 


be  at  stake,  betray  the  secrets  of  the  holy  fathers ; and  I,  frail 
mortal,  have  betrayed  the  confidence  of  my  superiors ! Alas, 
alas ! I am  a lost  soul ! The  Invisible  Fathers  will  expel  me 
from  the  brotherhood  if  they  should  ever  hear  of  this.” 

“Give  yourself  no  disquiet,  I will  never  betray  you,”  said 
Wilhelmine,  laughing.  “ I am  only  surprised  that  you  should 
ever  have  been  admitted  into  the  brotherhood,  and  that  such 
an  order  should  have  been  issued  in  your  presence.” 

“ My  fairest,  they  are  not  aware  that  the  Mr.  Müller  of 
Oranienburg,  who  was  received  into  the  holy  order  by  the 
general  assembly  some  two  weeks  since,  is  no  other  than  the 
veritable  Chamberlain  Eietz.  You  must  know  that  it  is  im- 
possible to  recognize  each  other  in  these  assemblies,  as  they 
are  held  in  a mystical  gloom,  and  that  the  brothers  are  known 
to  each  other  when  they  meet  in  the  world  by  certain  words, 
signs,  and  pressures  of  the  hand,  only.  My  dear,  twenty  of 
these  Eosicrucians  might  meet  at  a party,  without  dreaming 
that  they  were  so  closely  connected.  The  names  of  all  the 
brothers  are  known  only  to  the  circle  directors,  and  I was  of 
course  not  such  a fool  as  to  write  my  real  name  on  the  slip  of 
paper  which  I deposited  in  the  urn  after  having  paid  the  ad- 
mission-fee of  four  Fredericks  d’or,  and  received  in  return 
the  holy  symbol  of  initiation  in  the  solemn  twilight  of  the 
outer  temple  halls.  The  exalted  fathers,  Bischofswerder  and 
Wöllner,  would  be  astonished,  and  any  thing  but  delighted, 
to  learn  that  I was  present  at  the  meeting  of  to-day,  and  was 
one  of  the  favored  individuals  who  heard  the  order  given  con- 
cerning the  demolition  of  your  palace.” 

“ By  all  that  I hold  dear,  these  traitors  shall  pay  dearly 
for  this  malice!”  exclaimed  Wilhelmine,  frowning  angrily. 
“ This  conflict  must  be  brought  to  a conclusion.  I am  weary 
of  this  necessity  of  being  constantly  on  the  alert  to  guard 
against  the  stratagems  and  attacks  of  my  enemies.  I will 
have  peace,  and  either  they  or  I must  be  conquered.” 

“ If  I might  be  permitted  to  give  the  goddess  Minerva  my 
advice,  I would  say:  ‘Make  peace  with  these  enemies,  and 


456 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


secure  the  support  and  assistance  of  the  dear  Eosicrucians 
against  your  other  enemies,  the  aristocrats  and  court  conspir- 
ators. ’ Believe  me,  I give  you  this  advice  in  all  honesty  and 
sincerity,  and  why  should  I not?  Are  we  not  allies,  and  have 
we  not  sworn  to  assist  each  other  at  all  times  and  everywhere? 
In  this  respect  my  charming  wife  has  been  a most  excellent 
companion ; she  has  kept  her  promises  faithfully.  Thanks  to 
her  assistance,  I have  attained  all  I desired,  and  there  are  few 
men  who  can  say  this  of  themselves.  I desired  influence, 
power,  and  money,  and  I have  them  all.  By  the  king^e 
favor  I have  achieved  influence  and  power,  and  have  amassed 
wealth  by  the  folly  of  the  persons  sent  me  by  you,  my  dearest, 
with  their  petitions  for  patents  of  nobility  and  decorations. 
In  the  three  years  of  our  reign  I have  created  at  least  twc 
hundred  noblemen,  and  of  this  number  twenty  counts  in  the 
flrst  year  alone.'' 

“Yes,  indeed,  these  counts  are  well  known,"  said  Wilhel* 
mine,  laughing ; “ the  gentlemen  of  the  old  nobility  call  them 
by  no  other  name  than  ‘the  batch  of  1786.’  " * 

“ Moreover,  the  number  of  crosses  of  St.  John,  and  orders 
of  the  Eagle,  conferred  by  me  upon  deserving  individuals,  is 
legion,  and  goodly  sums  of  money  have  they  brought  into  my 
coffers!"  said  Kietz,  laughing.  “I  desired  a well-provided 
table,  at  which  I could  entertain  a few  gentlemen  of  rank  and 
convivial  spirits ; and  now  gentlemen  of  this  stamp  are  only 
too  anxious  to  obtain  invitations  to  my  dinners,  and  to  enjoy 
the  delicious  pasties  for  which  my  French  cook  is  so  justly 
celebrated.  I lead  a life  of  enjoyment,  and,  as  I am  in  a 
great  measure  indebted  to  your  recommendation  and  patron- 
age for  this  enjoyment,  it  is  but  natural  that  I should  be 
grateful,  and  should  endeavor  to  serve  you  to  the  best  of  my 
ability." 

“ I thank  you,  eher  said  Wilhelmine,  in  kindly  tones. 

“You,  too,  have  always  been  a good  and  efficient  friend,  and 
it  was  partly  through  your  influence  that  my  debts  were  paid, 

♦See  “Trivate  Letters,”  vol.  iii. 


HUSBAND  AND  WIFE. 


457 


my  income  doubled,  and  myself  made  the  mistress  of  fchis 
beautiful  palace.  I still  desire  a great  many  things,  however. 
You  are  aware  that  I am  so  unfortunate  as  to  be  ambitious, 
and— 

“ And,  in  your  ear,  the  name  Madame  Eietz  is  not  exactly 
the  music  of  the  spheres.” 

Not  exactly,  my  dear  friend,  although  I must  admit  that 
the  name  is  rather  musical.  But  I — ” 

The  door  of  the  antechamber  was  hastily  opened,  and  a 
lackey  appeared  on  the  threshold,  holding  in  his  hand  a silver 
■waiter  on  which  a folded  note  lay. 

“ This  note  has  just  been  left  here  for  Chamberlain  Eietz,” 
said  the  lackey. 

Eietz  took  the  note  and  opened  it.  “ Madame,”  said  he, 
after  the  door  had  closed  behind  the  servant,  “ madame,  my 
worst  fears  are  realized.  Countess  Ingenheim  is  dead!” 

“Dead!”  repeated  Wilhelmine,  shuddering.  “Poor  wo- 
man, she  has  paid  dearly  for  her  short-lived  triumph,  and  those 
who  assert  that  the  poor  person  was  poisoned,  are  probably 
right ; the  shame  attendant  upon  her  position,  her  pangs  of 
conscience  and  her  remorse — these  were  the  drops  of  poison 
which  she  daily  imbibed,  and  of  which  she  has  now  died. 
Truly,  to  be  the  beloved  of  a king  requires  a firm  heart  and 
very  strong  nerves.  Poor  woman,  I pity  her!” 

“Truly,  you  are  worthy  of  the  greatest  admiration,”  said 
Eietz.  “ You  lament  the  sad  fate  of  your  rival,  while  you 
yourself  are  in  the  greatest  danger  on  her  account.  You 
must  now  decide  whether  you  will  receive  your  company  or 
not.” 

“Oh,  my  friend,”  sighed  Wilhelmine,  “how  can  you  sup- 
pose me  capable  of  indulging  in  the  delights  of  social  inter- 
course at  a time  when  I have  suffered  so  sad  a loss?  No,  the 
king’s  grief  is  my  grief  also,  and  instead  of  being  merry  and 
laughing  with  others,  1 will  weep  with  the  royal  widower.” 

“You  are  an  incomparable  woman,”  cried  Eietz,  with  a 
loud  peal  of  laughter;  “as  wise,  as  beautiful,  as  much  the 


458 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


demon  as  the  angel!  No  wonder  you  are  fearless!  Your 
power  rests  on  an  adamantine  foundation.’' 

Wilhelmine  made  no  response,  but  rang  the  bell,  and  told 
the  servant  who  answered  her  call,  to  inform  the  porter  than 
no  soiree  would  take  place  that  evening,  and  that  he  was  to 
tell  all  visitors  that  mourning  for  the  sudden  death  of  Count- 
ess Ingenheim  would  compel  her  to  forego  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  them  for  that  evening  and  the  following  week. 

‘‘I  beg  you  to  leave  me  now,  my  friend,”  said  Wilhelmine, 
beginning  to  divest  herself  of  the  sparkling  jewels  that  en- 
circled her  neck  and  arms.  ‘‘  I must  hasten  to  lay  aside  these 
worldly  garments,  in  order  that  the  king  may  find  me  attired 
in  sable  robes  when  he  arrives.” 

‘‘How!  Do  you  believe  the  king  will  visit  you  at  a time 
when  his  wife  of  the  left  hand  has  but  just  breathed  her 
last?” 

“ I feel  assured  that  he  will.  His  majesty  knows  how  deep 
an  interest  I take  in  all  that  concerns  him.  He  knows  where 
to  look  for  sympathy;  he  knows  that  I laugh  with  him  when 
he  is  glad,  and  weep  with  him  when  he  is  sad.  To  whom 
should  he  fiee  in  his  hour  of  grief  but  to  me?” 

“You  are  right,”  said  Eietz,  smiling,  “to  whom  should  he 
fiee,  in  his  hour  of  grief,  but  to  his  first  sultana?  I am  going, 
and  I truly  promise  you  that  if  his  majesty,  in  the  depth  of 
his  grief,  should  chance  to  be  forgetful  of  this  haven  of  rest, 
I will  suggest  it  to  our  dear,  chastened  king.” 

“Do  so,  my  friend,  and  hasten  to  his  majesty’s  side,  or  my 
enemies  will  forestall  you,  and  perhaps  console  the  king  in  a 
different  manner.” 

“ I am  going,  sultana.  But  these  shutters — shall  I order 
them  to  be  closed?” 

“And  why,  pray?  I am  not  afraid  of  a few  stones,  and  if 
they  should  be  showered  upon  us  too  plentifully,  we  can  re- 
tire to  one  of  the  back  rooms  and  observe  the  bombardment 
in  perfect  security.  When  did  you  say  it  was  to  begin?” 

“As  soon  as  it  has  grown  dark;  the  deeds  of  these  pious 


HUSBAND  AND  WIFE. 


45Ö 


fathers  shun  the  light  of  day.  The  calendar  says  moonlight 
until  ten  o’clock;  it  is  therefore  probable  that  the  sovereign 
people,  as  the  rabble  of  Paris  now  calls  itself,  will  not  honor 
you  with  a call  until  that  hour.  It  would  be  well  to  notify 
the  police  of  the  flattering  attentions  awaiting  you,  and  to 
solicit  a guard  for  the  protection  of  your  palace.'' 

“ I will  take  good  care  not  to  do  so,"  rejoined  WilhelmincL 
smiling.  ‘‘Let  the  sovereign  people  amuse  themselves  by 
breaking  my  windows  if  they  choose.  The  louder  they  hovd 
and  call  me  poisoner  the  better,  for  the  king  will  hear  them 
and  he  will  pity  me." 

“ Wilhelmine,"  cried  Eietz  with  enthusiasm,  “it  is  a pity 
you  are  already  my  wife ; if  you  were  not  I should  certainly 
address  you.  I could  love  you  to  distraction!” 

“Do  not,  my  friend,  I pray  you,”  said  Wilhelmine;  “you 
would  cut  but  a sorry  figure  in  the  role  of  a disconsolate  lover. 
But  now  go;  it  is  already  eight  o’clock,  and  I hear  a great 
many  carriages  coming  and  going." 

The  chamberlain  pressed  her  beautiful  hand  to  his  lips,  and 
then  took  his  departure.  She  regarded  him  with  a contempt- 
uous smile  as  he  left  the  room,  and  when  the  door  had  closed 
behind  him,  a clear  and  ringing  peal  of  laughter  escaped  her 
lips.  “ To  think  that  this  Caliban  has  the  honor  of  being 
called  my  husband,"  said  she,  “and  that  I am  still  the  wife 
of  a valet!  And  why?  Merely  because  I am  not  of  noble 
birth,  like — like  these  sensitive  puppets,  whose  shame  is  gar- 
nished over  with  noble  titles  and  robes  of  ermine,  and  who 
nevertheless  succumb  and  die  under  the  burden  of  their  self- 
acquired  dignities.  I can  bear  the  precious  burden ! I — will 
not  diel  No,  not  I!" 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


46(? 


CHAPTEK  X. 

THE  ATTACK. 

Half  an  nour  later  the  folding-doors  of  the  reception-room 
were  thrown  open  to  admit  the  king,  who  came  without  cere- 
mony. and  without  attendants,  as  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
doing.  Wilhelmine  hurried  forward  to  meet  him ; her  lovely 
countenance  wore  a sad  expression,  and  her  beautiful  figure 
was  attired  in  sable  mourning-robes.  One  might  have  sup- 
posed she  had  lost  her  mother  or  a sister,  so  mournful  was  her 
manner,  so  full  of  sadness  was  her  glance  as  she  slowly  raised 
her  eyes  to  the  king’s  pale  countenance.  ^^My  dear  master/' 
murmured  she,  “how  kind  your  majesty  is,  to  think  of  me, 
and  honor  me  with  a visit,  in  this  your  hour  of  sore  trial!” 

He  stroked  her  soft,  shining  hair  tenderly,  and  drew  her 
head  to  his  bosom.  “ I never  forget  you,  my  friend,  and  the 
thought  of  your  radiant  eyes  and  lovely  countenance  always 
consoles  me  when  I am  troubled  with  care  or  grief,  which  is 
unfortunately  very  often  the  case.” 

“Your  majesty’s  grief  has  been  so  great  to-day!  The 
divine  being  whom  we  all  loved  and  honored  has  gone  from 
us!” 

“Yes,”  said  the  king,  with  a deep-drawn  sigh,  his  expres- 
sion more  indicative  of  ennui  than  of  sorrow,  “ yes.  Countess 
Ingenheim  died  this  afternoon.  But  her  death  did  not  sur- 
prise me;  the  good  countess  had  been  in  very  bad  health  ever 
since  the  birth  of  her  son,  more  than  a year  ago,  and  my 
physician  had  long  since  told  me  that  she  had  the  con- 
sumption, and  would  not  live  through  the  autumn.  The 
poor  countess  had  been  very  tearful  of  late ; she  wept  a great 
deal  when  I was  with  her,  and  was  constantly  reproaching 
herself.  This  was  unpleasant,  and  I visited  her  but  rarely 
during  the  last  few  weeks  for  fear  of  agitating  the  poor  in- 
valid. Moreover,  she  kept  up  a pretence  of  being  well,”  con- 


THE  ATTACK. 


461 


tinned  the  king,  seating  himself  in  the  arm-chair,  in  which 
Eietz  had  been  so  comfortably  installed  a few  minutes  before. 
“ Yes,  she  wished  to  impose  on  the  world  with  this  pretence, 
as  if  it  were  possible  to  avoid  observing  the  traces  of  her  ter- 
rible disease  in  her  pale,  attenuated  countenance ! She  always 
held  herself  erect,  went  to  all  the  parties,  and  even  visited  the 
theatre,  four  days  ago.  You  remember  it,  doubtlessly,  as  you 
were  present?” 

“Yes,  I remember,”  murmured  Wilhelmine,  as  she  seated 
herself  on  a stool  at  the  king’s  feet,  folded  the  hands,  that 
contrasted  like  white  lilies  with  her  flowing  black-lace  sleeves, 
on  his  knees,  and  gave  him  a tender,  languishing  glance. 
She  knew  how  effective  these  glances  were — she  knew  that 
she  could  always  bind  her  lover  to  herself  again  with  these  in- 
visible toils. 

“If  poor  Julie  had  but  had  your  eyes  and  your  health!” 
sighed  the  king.  “ But  she  was  always  ailing,  and  in  the  end 
nothing  becomes  more  disagreeable  than  a sickly  woman. 
But  let  ris  speak  of  this  no  longer,  it  makes  me  sad!  It  is 
well  that  my  poor  Julie  has,  at  last,  found  a refuge  in  the 
grave  from  her  unceasing  remorse  and  her  jealous  love.” 

And  thus  Frederick  took  leave  of  the  spirit  of  the  affection- 
ate woman  who  had  sacriflced  all  through  her  love  for  him. 
The  consciousness  that  his  love  for  her  had  long  since  died, 
and  that  she  was  nothing  more  than  a burden  to  him,  had 
killed  her. 

Having  taken  leave  of  the  spirit  of  his  dead  love,  the  king 
now  assumed  a cheerful  expression,  and  this  expression  was 
immediately  reflected  in  Wilhelmine’s  countenance.  She 
smiled,  arose  from  her  stool,  threw  her  soft,  white  arms 
around  the  king’s  neck  with  passionate  tenderness,  and  ex- 
claimed : “ How  is  it  possible  to  die  when  one  can  have  the 

happiness  of  living  at  your  side!” 

The  king  drew  her  to  his  heart  and  kissed  her.  “ You  will 
live,  Wilhelmine ! You  love  me  too  dearly  to  think  of  dying 
of  this  miserable  feeling  of  remorse.  You  have  been  tried 


462 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


and  found  true,  Wilhelmine,  and  nothing  can  hereafter  sep- 
arate us.*' 

“Nothing,  my  dear  king  and  master!" 

“ Nothing,  Wilhelmine ; not  even  a new  love.  The  flames  of 
tenderness  that  glow  in  my  heart  may  sometimes  flare  up  and 
seem  to  point  in  other  directions,  but  they  will  ever  return 
to  you,  and  never  will  the  altar  grow  cold  on  which  the  first 
love-flames  burned  so  brightly  in  the  fair  days  of  our  youth." 

“God  bless  your  majesty  for  these  words!"  cried  Wilhel- 
mine, pressing  the  king’s  hands  to  her  lips. 

“ Let  us  have  no  more  of  this  formality,  I pray  you,"  said 
Frederick  William,  wearily.  “We  are  alone,  and  I am 
heartily  tired  of  carrying  the  royal  purple  about  with  me 
wherever  I go.  Relieve  me  of  this  burdensome  mantle,  Wil- 
helmine, and  let  us  dream  that  the  days  of  our  youthful 
happiness  have  come  back  to  us.** 

“My  Frederick  is  always  young,"  whispered  she;  “eternal 
youth  glows  in  your  heart  and  is  reflected  on  your  noble  brow. 
But  I — look  at  me,  Frederick  William!  I have  grown  old, 
and  the  unmerciful  hand  of  Time  has  been  laid  ungently  on 
my  brow." 

The  king  looked  at  Wilhelmine,  and  could  find  no  evidence 
of  this  in  the  fresh,  smiling  countenance  of  his  enchantress. 
He  listened  to  her  siren  voice,  and  its  music  soothed  his  soul 
and  dissipated  all  care  and  sorrow.  As  the  hand  of  the  clock 
neared  the  tenth  hour,  and  while  Wilhelmine  was  engaged  in 
a charming  tete-a-tete  with  the  king  over  a delightful  supper 
of  savory  dishes  and  choice  wines,  the  smiling  siren  told  him 
of  the  danger  that  threatened  her,  of  the  new  intrigue  of  her 
enemies  at  court,  and  of  their  determination  to  incite  a mob 
to  attack  her  palace. 

“ There  can  be  nothing  in  all  this,"  said  the  king,  smiling; 
“ this  story  has  only  been  concocted  to  alarm  you.  If  your 
enemies  had  formed  any  such  plan,  my  superintendent  of 
police  would  certainly  have  heard  of  it,  and  have  taken  meas- 
ures to  prevent  it." 


THE  ATTACK. 


463 


Wilhelmine  inclined  her  rosy  lips  to  the  king’s  ear,  and 
narrated  in  low  accents  what  Eietz  had  told  her  concerning 
the  order  issued  by  the  Eosicrucians. 

The  king  started  with  surprise  and  alarm.  ‘^No,”  said  he, 
this  is  impossible;  Bischofswerder  and  Wöllner  are  my  most 
faithful  friends;  they  will  never  undertake  to  harm  you,  for 
they  know  that  you  are  dear  to  me,  and  that  your  presence  is 
necessary  to  my  peace  and  contentment — yes,  I may  even  say 
to  my  happiness!’’ 

“ It  is  for  this  very  reason  that  they  desire  to  effect  my 
banishment.  They  hope  to  gain  unbounded  control  over  you, 
by  driving  from  your  side  the  only  being  who  dares  to  tell 
you  the  truth,  and  who  loves  in  you  the  dear,  noble  man,  and 
not  the  king!  My  disinterested  love  for  you,  Frederick  Wil- 
liam, is  in  their  eyes  a crime,  and  they  accuse  me  of  having 
committed  another  crime,  for  the  purpose  of  tearing  me  from 
your  heart  and  treading  me  under  foot  like  a noxious  weed!” 

“They  shall  not  succeed!”  protested  Frederick  William. 
“But  I cannot  believe  that — ” The  king  ceased  speaking; 
at  this  moment  a deafening  roar,  as  of  the  sea  when  lashed  to 
fury  by  the  storm,  was  heard  in  the  street;  it  came  nearer  and 
nearer,  and  then  the  windows  of  the  palace  shook  with 
the  fierce  cries:  “Murderess!  Poisoner!  Curses  upon  the 
murderess!” 

Wilhelmine,  an  air  of  perfect  serenity  on  her  countenance, 
remained  seated  at  the  king’s  feet,  but  he  turned  pale  and 
looked  toward  the  window  in  dismay.  “ You  perceive,  my 
master,”  said  she,  with  an  air  of  perfect  indifference,  “you 
perceive  that  these  are  the  exact  words  agreed  upon  in  the 
Eosicrucian  assembly  this  morning.  This  is  the  war-cry  of 
my  enemies.” 

“Murderess!  Poisoner!”  resounded  again  upon  the  night 
air.  “Curses  upon  the  murderess!” 

“ I knew  they  would  dare  to  make  this  attack,”  murmured 
Wilhelmine,  still  smiling.  “ Had  I felt  guilty,  I would  have 
fled  or  have  solicited  protection  of  my  king.  But  I wished 


464 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


your  majesty  to  see  how  far  my  enemies  would  go  in  their 
malignity — what  cruel  measures  they  would  take  to  effect  my 
banishment.” 

‘‘  You  have  done  well,”  said  the  king,  earnestly;  you  have 
acted  like  a heroine,  and  never — ” 

He  was  interrupted  by  a loud  crash,  and  something  hissed 
through  the  broken  window.  With  a loud,  piercing  cry, 
AVilhelmine  threw  herself  over  the  king’s  person  and  clasped 
him  in  a close  embrace,  as  if  determined  to  protect  him 
against  the  whole  world. 

“ They  may  murder  me,  but  they  shall  not  harm  a hair  of 
j^our  dear  head,  my  beloved!” 

These  words,  uttered  in  loud,  exulting  tones,  sounded  in 
the  king’s  ear  like  an  inspiring  hymn  of  love,  and  he  never 
forgot  them. 

The  stone  had  fallen  to  the  floor,  with  a loud  noise,  but  no 
second  one  followed  it.  Curses  still  resounded  from  below, 
but  the  mob  seemed  nevertheless  to  have  been  alarmed  by 
their  own  boldness,  and  hesitated  before  commencing  a new 
attack. 

Wilhelmine  now  released  the  king  from  her  protecting  em- 
brace, and  with  gentle  force  compelled  him  to  rise  from  his 
chair. 

“ Come,  my  beloved,  danger  threatens  you  here ! They  will 
soon  make  another  attack.” 

“ Wilhelmine,”  said  he,  with  emotion,  “ give  me  that  stone.  ” 

As  she  stooped  to  pick  up  the  stone  that  lay  at  her  feet,  the 
black  lace  shawl  fell  to  the  floor,  disclosing  a purple  stripe  on 
her  snow-white  shoulder. 

“You  are  wounded,  Wilhelmine,  you  are  wounded!”  cried 
the  king,  in  dismay.  She  had  arisen  in  the  mean  while,  and 
now  handed  him  the  stone,  with  her  siren  smile. 

“It  is  nothing,  my  king;  the  dear  people’s  cannon-ball 
merely  grazed  my  shoulder.  To  be  sure,  it  hurts  a little,  but 
my  arms  are  not  broken.” 

“And  it  was  for  me  that  you  received  this  wound!”  said 


THE  ATTACK. 


465 


the  king,  in  deep  emotion.  “ Yon  shielded  and  protected  me 
with  your  fair  form.  Wilhelmine,  I will  never  forget  this; 
this  stone  shall  be  a lasting  memorial  of  your  love  and  heroic 
devotion!” 

For  the  second  time  a loud  crash  was  heard,  and  now  the 
stones  came  flying  through  the  broken  windows  in  quick  suc- 
cession. At  this  moment  several  lackeys,  pale  with  fright, 
rushed  into  the  room  to  report  that  the  populace  were  en- 
deavoring to  batter  down  the  doors  of  the  palace,  and  that 
these  were  already  giving  way. 

“Save  yourself,  my  king,  flee  from  this  palace!”  cried 
Wilhelmine.  “Permit  my  butler  to  lead  you  through  the 
garden  to  the  little  gate  that  opens  into  Behren  Street;  from 
there  your  majesty  will  be  able  to  return  to  your  palace  in 
safety.” 

“And  you,  my  dearest?”  asked  the  king. 

“And  I,”  said  she,  with  heroic  composure,  “I  will  await 
my  enemies ; if  they  kill  me  I can  die  with  the  proud  con- 
sciousness that  I have  saved  the  life  of  my  king,  and  that  he, 
at  least,  is  convinced  of  my  innocence!” 

Another  shower  of  stones  succeeded,  and  the  parlor  was  now 
a scene  of  fearful  confusion.  While  flerce  curses  upon  the 
head  of  the  murderess,  and  denunciations  of  the  poisoner,  re- 
sounded from  the  street  below,  chairs,  mirrors,  vases,  and 
marble  tables,  were  being  broken  and  scattered  in  every  direc- 
tion by  the  stones  that  poured  in  through  the  windows  in  an 
uninterrupted  shower.  In  the  midst  of  this  din  and  clatter 
Wilhelmine’s  voice  could  be  heard  from  time  to  time,  conjur- 
ing the  king  to  fly,  or  at  least  to  repair  with  her  to  one  of  the 
apartments  in  the  rear  of  the  palace. 

But  the  king  remained  Arm ; and  issued  his  commands  to 
the  trembling  servants,  in  a loud  voice.  He  ordered  them  to 
close  the  inner  shutters,  and  they  did  as  he  bade  them. 
Creeping  timidly  on  their  hands  and  knees  to  the  windows, 
they  withdrew  the  bolts  and  closed  the  shutters  with  a sudden 
jerk.  The  king  now  ordered  one  of  the  lackeys  to  hasten 


466 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


through  the  garden  to  the  office  of  his  superintendent  of 
police,  to  acquaint  him  with  the  state  of  affairs,  and  to  re- 
quest him  to  disperse  the  insurrectionary  populace.  After 
this  messenger  had  been  despatched,  and  now  that  the  stones 
were  falling  harmlessly  from  the  closed  shutters,  the  king 
dismissed  the  servants  who  were  present.  He  was  now  once 
more  alone  with  the  beloved  of  his  youth. 

“ Wilhelmine,’'  said  he,  “I  can  never  forget  your  heroism 
and  devotion.  You  shall  have  complete  satisfaction  for  the 
insults  offered  you  to-day,  and  those  who  sought  your  de- 
struction shall  bend  the  knee  before  you.” 

Half  an  hour  later  all  was  still,  and  the  stones  were  no 
longer  flying  against  the  windows.  The  chief  of  police  had 
made  a requisition  on  the  military  authorities  for  a body  of 
troops,  and  the  populace  had  fled  in  terror  from  the  threaten- 
ing muskets  and  glittering  sabres. 

The  king  had  taken  his  departure  in  the  carriage  tha'o  had 
been  ordered  to  await  him  in  Behren  Street.  He  had,  how- 
ever, taken  the  stone  with  him  that  had  struck  Wilhelmine’s 
shoulder.  On  taking  leave  he  kissed  her  tenderly,  and  told 
her  to  await  him  in  her  palace  at  twelve  o’clock  on  the  follow- 
ing day,  when  she  should  receive  the  promised  satisfaction. 

Wilhelmine  was  now  alone;  with  a proud,  triumphant 
smile,  she  walked  to  and  fro  in  the  parlor,  seeming  to  enjoy 
the  scene  of  confusion  and  destruction.  At  times,  when  her 
foot  touched  one  of  the  stones,  she  would  laugh,  push  it  aside, 
and  exclaim : “ Thus  you  shall  all  be  thrust  aside,  my 

enemies!  I will  walk  over  you  all,  and  the  stones  which  you 
have  hurled  at  me  shall  serve  as  a stairway  for  my  ascent ! — 
I have  managed  well,”  said  she,  continuing  to  walk  restlessly 
to  and  fro.  “ I ha\/e  opened  the  king’s  eyes  to  the  malignity 
and  cunning  of  his  friends,  and  have  shown  my  enemies  that 
I am  not  afraid  of,  and  scorn  to  fly  from  them.  Messrs.  Von 
Bischof swerder  and  Wöllner  will  soon  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  they  will  be  worsted  in  this  conflict,  and  had  better  seek 
to  form  an  alliance  with  their  formidable  enemy!” 


THE  ATTACK. 


467 


As  she  continued  walking  amid  the  surrounding  stones  and 
ruins,  the  blood  trickled  slowly  down  her  shoulder;  and  this, 
with  her  glittering  eyes,  gave  her  once  more  the  appearance 
of  a tigress — of  a wounded  tigress  meditating  revenge. 

Wilhelmine  was  now  interrupted  in  her  train  of  thought 
by  a noise  in  the  street  that  sounded  like  the  distant  roll  of 
thunder.  She  opened  one  of  the  shutters,  behind  which 
tiothing  remained  of  the  window  but  the  frame,  and  looked 
out  into  the  night,  and  down  into  the  broad  street  of  the 
linden-trees,  now  entirely  deserted.  But  the  noise  grew 
louder  and  louder,  and  the  street  seemed  to  be  faintly  illu- 
mined in  the  distance.  This  light  soon  became  a broad 
glare;  and  then  Wilhelmine  saw  that  it  was  a funeral 
procession.  She  saw  a number  of  dark,  shrouded  figures 
bearing  gleaming  torches,  and  then  a long  funeral  car,  drawn 
by  four  black  horses.  A coffin  lay  on  this  car.  Its  silver 
ornaments  shone  brightly  in  the  refiection  of  the  torches;  a 
coronet  at  the  head  of  the  coffin  glittered  as  though  bathed 
in  the  dawning  light  of  a new  day.  Torch-bearers  followed 
the  funeral  car,  and  then  came  a number  of  closed  carriages. 
It  was  the  funeral  procession  of  Countess  Julie  von  Ingen - 
heim,  conveying  the  oorpse  to  the  estate  of  the  family  Von 
Voss,  to  deposit  it  in  the  ancestral  vaults.  Wilhelmine  stood 
at  the  window  and  saw  this  ghostly  procession  glide  by  in  the 
stillness  of  the  night.  She  remained  there  until  it  had  dis- 
appeared in  the  distance,  and  all  was  again  silent.  When  she 
stepped  back  her  countenance  was  radiant  with  a proud,  tri- 
umphant smile.  ‘‘She  is  dead!’*  said  she,  in  low  tones; 
“ the  coronet  now  glitters  on  her  coffin  only.  I still  live,  and 
a coronet  will  yet  glitter  on  my  brow.  A long  time  may 
elapse  before  I attain  this  coveted  gem ; but  this  wound  on 
my  shoulder  may  work  wonders.  I can  afford  to  wait,  for  I — • 
I do  not  intend  to  die.  I will  outlive  you  all — you  who  dare 
contend  with  me  for  the  king’s  heart.  Our  love  is  sealed 
with  blood,  but  the  vows  which  he  made  to  you  were  cast 
upon  the  wind!*’ 


468 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


On  the  following  day,  the  king  repaired  to  Madame  Eietz’s 
palace  at  the  appointed  hour.  He  came  with  a brilliant 
suite;  all  his  ministers  and  courtiers,  and  even  his  son,  the 
Prince  Eoyal  Frederick  William,  accompanied  him.  The 
young  prince  had  come  in  obedience  to  his  father’s  command, 
but  a dark  frown  rested  on  his  countenance  as  he  walked 
through  the  glittering  apartments.  When  he  met  the  mis- 
tress of  all  this  magnificence,  and  when  the  king  himself 
introduced  her  to  his  son  as  his  dear  friend,  a glance  of  con- 
temptuous anger  shot  from  the  usually  mild  eyes  of  the  prince 
royal  upon  the  countenance  of  the  smiling  friend. 

She  felt  the  meaning  of  this  glance;  it  pierced  her  heart 
like  a dagger;  and  a voice  seemed  to  whisper  in  her  ear: 
“ This  youth  will  destroy  you ! Beware  of  him,  for  he  is  the 
avenging  angel  destined  to  punish  you!’' 

But  she  suppressed  her  terror,  smiled,  and  listened  to  the 
king,  who  was  narrating  the  occurrences  of  the  riot  of  the  day 
before,  and  pointing  to  the  stones  which,  at  the  king’s  ex- 
press command,  had  been  allowed  to  remain  where  they  had 
fallen. 

‘^It  was  an  insurrection,”  said  the  king — “an  insurrection 
of  the  populace,  that  now  fancies  itself  sovereign,  and  would 
so  gladly  play  the  master  and  ruler,  and  dictate  terms  to  its 
king.  I hate  this  rabble  and  all  those  who  make  it  sub- 
servient to  their  ends — who  use  its  rude  fists  to  execute  their 
own  plans — and  never  will  I pardon  or  take  into  favor  such 
rebels  and  traitors.” 

As  the  king  concluded,  he  fastened  an  angry  glance  on 
Bischofswerder  and  Wöllner,  the  covert  meaning  of  which 
these  worthies  seemed  to  have  divined,  for  they  cast  their 
eyes  down  and  looked  abashed. 

The  king  now  turned  to  Wilhelmine,  raised  the  lace  shawl 
from  her  shoulder  with  a gentle  hand,  and  pointed  to  the 
wound  which  she  had  received  the  day  before. 

“Look  at  this,  gentlemen!  Madame  Eietz  received  this 
wound  while  interposing  her  own  body  to  protect  her  kingj 


THE  ATTACK. 


469 


the  stone  that  inflicted  this  wound  would,  but  for  her  devo- 
tion and  heroism,  have  struck  me  in  the  face.  My  son,  you 
see  before  you  the  protectress  of  your  father ; kiss  her  hand 
and  thank  her!  And  you,  too,  gentlemen,  all  of  you,  thank 
the  heroic  woman  who  shielded  your  king  from  danger.*' 

This  was  indeed  a glorious  satisfaction!  Wilhelmine’s 
ambitious  heart  exulted  with  joy  as  she  stood  there  like  a 
queen,  her  hand  extended  to  be  kissed  by  a prince  royal,  by 
generals,  ministers,  and  courtiers,  whose  words  of  thanks 
were  unceasingly  resounding  in  her  ear.  But  there  was  one 
drop  of  bitterness  in  all  this  honey;  and  the  warning  voice 
again  whispered,  Beware  of  the  prince  royal,  for  he  is  the 
avenging  angel  destined  to  punish  you !" 

The  prince  royal  had  given  her  a second  threatening  glance 
when  he  stooped  to  kiss  her  hand,  at  the  king’s  command; 
and  she  alone  knew  that  his  lips  had  not  touched  her  hand. 

The  king  had  looked  on  with  a smile  while  his  ministers  and 
courtiers  were  doing  homage  to  his  ‘^protectress.’*  He  now 
turned  to  the  portrait  of  his  favorite  son.  Count  von  der  Mark. 
His  boy’s  soft,  mild  eyes  seemed  to  gaze  down  on  his  father. 

“ My  son,**  said  the  king,  in  a loud,  agitated  voice,  ‘‘  I swear 
to  your  blessed  spirit,  surely  in  our  midst  in  this  hour,  I swear 
that  I will  reward  the  mother  you  so  tenderly  loved,  for  all 
the  affection  which  she  lavished  upon  my  boy,  and  that  I will 
never  forget  her  devotion  in  risking  her  own  life  to  preserve 
mine.  My  son,  I swear  to  you  that  I will  be  grateful  to  the 
preserver  of  my  life  while  I live,  and  that  her  enemies  shall 
never  succeed  in  lowering  her  in  my  high  estimation.  My 
son,  in  witness  of  this  my  solemn  vow,  I kiss  the  wound 
which  your  noble  mother  received  in  my  defence!** 

Frederick  William  stooped  and  kissed  the  wound  on  Wil- 
helmine’s shoulder. 

It  was  a grand,  an  impressive  moment,  and  Wilhelmine’s 
ambitious  heart  exulted.  Visions  of  a brilliant  future  arose 
before  her  soul,  and,  as  she  stooped  to  kiss  the  king’s  hand, 
she  vowed  that  these  visions  should  be  realized ! 


470 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


But,  when  she  raised  her  head,  she  shuddered.  She  had 
again  encountered  the  prince  royal’s  glance.  The  dagger 
pierced  her  heart  for  the  third  time,  and  the  warning  voice 
in  her  soul  whispered  for  the  third  time:  “Beware  of  the 
prince  royal ! He  is  the  avenging  angel  destined  to  punish 
you!- 


CHAPTEE  XI. 

YOUTH  VICTORIOUS. 

Charlotte  vok  Steih  sat  in  her  garden  pavilion,  anxiously 
awaiting  him  for  whom  it  had  never  been  necessary  to  wait  in 
former  days.  She  had  already  given  him  three  invitations  to 
pay  her  a morning  visit  in  the  little  pavilion  in  which  his 
protestations  of  love  had  so  often  resounded.  But  these  ten- 
der invitations  had  not  been  accepted.  He  had  always  found 
some  pretext  for  avoiding  this  Ute-a-Ute  in  Charlotte’s  pavil- 
ion ; he  was  too  busy,  had  commenced  some  work  which  he 
desired  to  finish  without  interruption,  or  was  troubled  with 
toothache. 

But  Charlotte  would  not  understand  that  he  made  these 
excuses  in  order  to  give  the  dark  cloud  that  hung  over  them 
both  time  to  pass  away.  With  the  obstinate  boldness  so  often 
characteristic  of  intelligent  women  who  have  been  much 
courted,  and  which  prompts  them  rather  to  cut  the  Gordiau 
knot  with  the  sword  than  to  unravel  it  slowly  with  their  skil 
ful  fingers,  Charlotte  von  Stein  had  for  the  fourth  time  en< 
treated  him  to  grant  the  desired  interview,  and  Goethe  at  Iasi 
consented. 

Charlotte  was  now  awaiting  him ; she  gazed  intently  at  thft 
doorway,  and  her  heart  beat  wildly.  But  she  determined  to 
be  composed,  to  meet  him  in  a mild  and  gentle  manner.  She 
knew  that  Goethe  detested  any  exhibition  of  anger  or  violence 
in  women.  She  was  also  well  aware  that  he  was  very  restive 
under  reproach.  Charlotte  knew  this,  and  was  determined 


YOUTH  VICTORIOUS. 


471 


to  give  him  no  cause  for  displeasure.  She  desired  to  see  this 
monarch  bound  in  her  silken  toils  once  more;  she  desired  to 
see  the  vanquished  hero  walk  before  her  triumphal  car  as  in 
the  past.  “I  cannot  break  with  him,”  said  she,  “for  I feel 
that  I still  love  him;  moreover,  it  would  be  very  disagreeable 
to  be  spoken  of  by  posterity  as  the  discarded  sweetheart  of 
the  celebrated  poet!  No,  no!  I will  be  reconciled  to  him, 
and  all  shall  be  as  it  was  before ! All ! And  now  be  quiet, 
my  heart,  be  quiet!” 

She  took  a book  from  the  table  before  which  she  was  sit- 
ting, regardless  of  what  it  might  be;  her  object  was  to  collect 
her  thoughts,  and  compel  her  mind  to  be  quiet.  She  opened 
the  book,  and  looked  at  it  with  an  air  of  indifEerence.  It 
was  a volume  of  Voltaire’s  works,  which  Goethe  had  sent  the 
day  before,  when  she  had  written  him  a note  requesting  him 
to  let  her  have  something  to  read.  She  remembered  this 
now,  and  also  remembered  that  she  had  as  yet  read  nothing 
in  the  volume.  Perhaps  she  would  still  have  time  to  make 
good  this  omission;  Goethe  might  ask  her  about  the  book. 
She  read  listlessly,  in  various  parts  of  the  work;  suddenly 
this  passage  attracted  her  attention : 

“ Qui  n’a  pas  I’esprit  de  son  ag 
De  son  age  n’a  que  la  malheur  1 ” * 

Strange  words  these ! She  felt  as  if  a chilly  hand  had  been 
laid  on  her  warm,  quivering  heart.  Was  the  spirit  of  her 
age  wanting  in  her?  was  nothing  but  its  unhappiness  por- 
trayed in  her  faded  countenance?  With  an  angry  movement 
she  threw  the  book  aside,  arose  from  her  seat,  and  went  to 
her  mirror. 

“Am  I really  old?  Is  the  unhappiness  of  old  age  really 
depicted  in  my  countenance,  while  the  spirit  of  youth  and 
love  is  at  the  same  time  burning  in  my  heart?” 

She  anxiously  scanned  her  features  in  search  of  the  hand- 
writing of  this  inexorable  enemy  of  women,  who  stalks 

* He  who  has  not  the  spirit  of  his  age 
Has  nothing  but  the  unhappiness  of  hifi  age. 


472 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


pitilessly  behind  their  youth  and  beauty,  is  their  invisible 
companion  on  all  the  rosy  paths  of  life,  and  who,  when  he  at 
last  becomes  visible,  drives  away  all  those  who  had  loved, 
adored,  and  done  homage  to  their  beauty.  Charlotte  sighed ; 
she  recognized  this  handwriting;  the  enemy  was  becoming 
but  too  plainly  visible ! She  sighed  again. 

‘‘  Yes,  it  is  written  there  that  I am  forty-six  years  old,  and 
every  one  can  read  it!  He,  too — alas!  he,  too!”  But  after 
a short  pause  her  countenance  grew  brighter.  ‘‘  Charlotte, 
you  should  be  ashamed  of  yourself — you  insult  your  friend 
and  lover ! He  loves  you  for  your  beauty  of  heart  and  mind, 
and  not  for  your  outward  beauty.  It  was  your  mind  that  at- 
tracted him,  your  heart  that  enchained  him,  and  they  have 
not  undergone  any  change,  have  not  grown  older.  He  loves 
you  for  the  eternal  youth  that  glows  in  your  heart  and  mind, 
and  he  cares  not  for  the  mask  with  which  age  has  covered 
your  countenance!  Yes,  thus  it  is,  and  thus  it  always  will 
be,  for  Goethe  is  not  like  other  men ; he  cares  not  for  out- 
ward appearances,  he  looks  at  the  inmost  being.  This  it  is 
that  he  loves,  and  ever  will  love  in  me,  for  this  is  and  ever 
will  be  unchanged!  Be  joyous,  Charlotte,  be  happy!  Do 
not  dread  the  unhappiness  of  old  age.  Voltaire  was  wrong, 
and  I will  take  the  liberty  of  correcting  Voltaire.  His  sen- 
tence should  read : 

“ Qui  n’a  pas  I’esprit  de  la  jeunesse 
N’aura  que  le  malheur  de  la  vieillesse.” 

“Yes,  thus  it  should  read:  ‘Who  does  not  bear  the  spirit 
of  youth  within  himself,  to  him  old  age  brings  nothing  but 
unhappiness!’  ” 

As  her  dear  friend  soon  afterward  entered  the  pavilion, 
Charlotte  advanced  to  meet  him  with  the  reflection  of  endur- 
ing youth  resting  on  her  brow,  and  a glad  smile  on  her  lips. 

But  he  did  not  observe  it,  his  countenance  was  grave  and 
earnest.  He  came  with  the  conviction  that  the  thunder 
storm  that  had  been  long  gathering  overhead  would  now  burst 
upon  them  in  all  its  fury.  He  had  come  armed  for  the  fray 


YOUTH  VICTORIOUS. 


473 


with  this  outward  sternness  of  manner,  while  his  soul  was 
filled  with  grief  and  tenderness. 

“Goethe,”  she  murmured,  extending  both  hands  to  greet 
him,  “ Goethe,  I thank  you  for  having  come.” 

“Charlotte,”  said  he,  gently,  “how  can  you  thank  me  for 
doing  what  is  as  gratifying  to  me  as  to  yourself?” 

“ And  yet  I was  compelled  to  entreat  you  to  do  so  for  the 
fourth  time.  Three  times  you  excused  yourself  with  pre- 
texts,” she  cried,  forgetful  of  her  good  resolutions,  and  car- 
ried away  by  her  sensitiveness. 

^ “Pretexts?”  repeated  Goethe. — “Well,  if  you  will  have  it 
so,  I must  admit  that  they  were  pretexts,  and  this  should 
convince  you,  Charlotte,  of  my  anxiety  to  avoid  offending 
you;  for  to  any  one  else  I would  plainly  and  openly  have 
said:  ‘I  will  not  come.’  It  will  be  better  for  us  both  if  we 
avoid  any  further  explanation.  It  would  perhaps  have  been 
wiser,  my  dear  Charlotte,  if  you  had  endeavored  to  master 
this  irritation  in  silence,  instead  of  bringing  about  the  ex- 
planations which  it  would  have  been  better  for  us  both  to 
have  avoided.” 

“ I have  nothing  to  avoid;  I can  give  every  explanation.  I 
can  lay  bare  my  heart  and  soul  to  you.  Wolf,  and  give  an  ac- 
count of  my  every  thought  and  deed.  No,  I have  no  cause 
to  avoid  explanations.  I love  you  and  have  always  been  true 
^to  you,  but  you,  you — ” 

“My  love,”  he  said,  interrupting  her,  “do  not  reproach 
me  again;  my  soul’s  pinions  are  already  drooping  under 
the  weight  of  reproaches  that  retard  the  flight  of  my 
imagination!” 

“Now  you  are  reproaching  me!”  cried  Charlotte.  “I  am 
to  blame  that  the  pinions  of  your  soul  are  drooping!  0 
Wolf,  how  can  you  be  so  cruel!  To  reproach  me!” 

“No,  Charlotte,  I do  not  reproach  you,  and  how  could  I? 
If  you  have  to  bear  with  me  in  many  things,  it  is  but  right 
that  I,  too,  should  suffer.  It  is  much  better  to  make  a 
friendly  compromise,  than  to  strive  to  conform  to  each 


474 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


other’s  requirements  in  all  things,  and,  in  the  event  of  our 
endeavor  being  unsuccessful,  to  become  completely  estranged. 
I would,  however,  still  remain  your  debtor  in  any  agreement 
we  might  make.  When  we  reflect  how  much  we  have  to  bear 
from  all  men,  my  love,  it  will  teach  us  to  be  considerate  with 
each  other.''  * 

Then  we  are  no  longer  to  endeavor  to  live  together  in 
happiness,  but  only  in  an  observance  of  consideration  toward 
each  other?"  cried  Charlotte. 

“ I had  hoped  that  consideration  for  each  other’s  weak- 
nesses would  lead  us  back  to  happiness.  I,  for  my  part,  will 
gladly  be  indulgent." 

“ I was  not  aware  that  I stood  in  need  of  your  indulgence," 
said  Charlotte,  proudly. 

“ I will,  however,  be  indulgent,  nevertheless.  And  I will 
gladly  say — that  is,  if  you  care  to  hear  it — that  your  dis- 
content and  many  reproaches  have  left  no  feeling  of  anger  in 
my  heart,  although  they  inflicted  great  pain." 

This  is  surely  to  be  attributed  to  the  fact  that  candor 
compels  you  to  admit  that  my  reproaches  are  just,  and  my 
discontent,  as  you  call  my  sadness,  but  natural  under  the  cir- 
cumstances. Tell  me.  Wolf,  what  reproaches  have  I ever 
made  that  were  not  fully  warranted  by  your  changed  manner 
and  coldness?" 

“ There  it  is !"  cried  Goethe,  beginning  to  lay  aside  his  kind- 
ly manner,  and  to  resent  Charlotte’s  haughtiness;  ‘‘therein 
lies  the  reproach,  and,  I must  say,  the  unmerited  reproach. 
This  is  the  refrain  that  I have  been  compelled  to  listen  to 
ever  since  my  return.  I am  changed,  I love  you  no  longer. 
And  yet  my  return  and  my  remaining  here,  are  the  best  and 
most  conclusive  proofs  of  my  love  for  you ! For  your  sake,  I 
returned — for  your  sake  I tore  myself  from  Italy,  and  all  the 
beauties  that  surrounded  me,  and — " 

“And  also  from  the  beauty  who  had  entwined  herself 
around  your  faithless  heart,"  added  Charlotte. 

♦ Ooethe’R own  words.— See  “Goethe’s  Correspondence  with  Madame  von  Stein,” 
voL  ii.,  p. 


YOUTH  VICTORIOUS. 


475 


He  did  not  notice  this  interruption,  but  continued  in  more 
animated  tones : And  for  your  sake  have  I remained  here, 
although  I have  felt  that  this  life  was  scarcely  endurable  ever 
since  my  return.  I saw  Herder  and  the  duchess  take  their 
departure ; she  urged  me  to  take  the  vacant  seat  in  her  car- 
riage, and  journey  to  Italy  in  her  company,  but  I remained, 
and  remained  on  your  account.  And  yet  I am  told,  over 
and  over  again,  that  I might  as  well  have  remained  away — 
that  I no  longer  take  an  interest  in  my  fellow-man,  and  that 
it  is  no  pleasure  to  be  in  my  company.’'  * 

‘^That  I have  never  said.” 

You  have  said  that  and  much  more!  You  have  called  me 
indifferent,  cruel,  cold-hearted ! Ask  all  my  other  friends  if 
I am  indifferent  to  them,  less  communicative,  or  take  less  in- 
terest in  all  that  concerns  them,  than  formerly.  Ask  them  if 
I do  not  belong  more  completely  to  them  and  to  society  than 
formerly.” 

Yes,  indeed,  so  it  is!  You  belong  more  to  them  and  so- 
ciety, because  you  belong  less  to  me ; you  have  abandoned  our 
intimate,  secret,  and  peculiar  relation,  in  order  to  devote 
yourself  to  the  world  in  general.  This  relation  is  no  longer 
pleasant,  because  all  confidence  is  at  an  end  between  us.” 

‘^Charlotte,”  cried  he,  in  angry  tones,  whenever  I have 
been  so  fortunate  as  to  find  you  reasonable  and  disposed  to 
converse  on  interesting  topics,  I have  felt  that  this  confidence 
still  existed.  But  this  I must  admit,”  he  continued,  with 
increased  violence,  and  now,  that  the  floodgates  were  once 
opened,  no  longer  able  to  repress  his  indignation;  ^‘this  I 
must  admit,  the  manner  in  which  you  have  treated  me  of  late 
is  no  longer  endurable.  When  I felt  disposed  to  converse, 
you  closed  my  lips;  when  I was  communicative,  you  accused 
me  of  indifference;  and  when  I manifested  interest  in  my 
friends,  you  accused  me  of  coldness  and  negligence.  You 
have  criticised  my  every  word,  have  found  fault  with  my 
manner,  and  have  invariably  made  me  feel  thoroughly  ill  at 

* Goethe’s  own  words. 

SI 


476 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


ease.  How  can  confidence  and  sincerity  prosper  when  you 
drive  me  from  your  side  with  studied  caprice?”  * 

“With  studied  caprice?”  repeated  Charlotte,  bursting 
into  tears.  “As  if  my  sadness,  which  he  calls  studied 
caprice,  were  not  the  natural  result  of  the  unhappiness  which 
he  has  caused  me.” 

“ I should  like  to  know  what  unhappiness  I have  caused 
you.  Tell  me,  Charlotte;  make  your  accusations;  perhaps  I 
can  succeed  in  convincing  you  that  you  are  wrong.” 

“It  shall  be  as  you  say,”  cried  Charlotte,  passionately. 
“ I accuse  you  of  being  faithless,  of  having  forgotten  the  love 
which  you  vowed  should  live  and  die  with  you — of  having 
forgotten  it  in  a twofold  love,  in  a noble  and  in  an  unworthy 
one.” 

“ Charlotte,  consider  well  what  you  say ; weigh  your  words 
lest  they  offend  my  soul.” 

“Did  you  weigh  your  words?  You  have  offended  my  soul 
mortally,  fearfully.  Or,  perhaps,  you  suppose  your  telling 
me  to  my  face  that  you  had  loved  another  woman  in  Italy, 
and  had  left  there  in  order  to  fiee  from  this  love,  could  not 
have  inflicted  such  fearful  pain.” 

“ Had  left  there  in  order  to  preserve  myself  for  you^  Char- 
lotte; to  remain  true  to  you.'* 

“ A great  preservation,  indeed,  when  love  is  already  lost. 
And  even  if  I admit  that  the  beauty  of  the  charming  Italian 
girl  made  you  for  the  moment  forgetful  of  your  plighted 
faith,  what  shall  I say  to  what  is  now  going  on  here  in  Wei- 
mar? What  shall  I think  of  the  great  poet,  the  noble  man, 
the  whole-souled,  loving  friend,  when  he  finds  his  pleasure  in 
secret,  disreputable  intercourse  with  a person  who  has  neither 
standing  nor  education,  who  belongs  to  a miserable  family, 
and  who,  in  my  estimation,  is  not  even  worthy  to  be  my 
chambermaid?  Oh,  to  think,  to  know,  that  the  poet  Goethe, 
the  privy-councillor  Goethe,  the  scholar  Goethe — that  he 

♦ Goethe’s  own  words.—See  “ Goethe’s  Correspondence  with  Madame  von  Stein,' 
vol.  ill.,  p.  m. 


YOUTH  VICTORIOUS. 


477 


steals  secretly  to  that  wretched  house  in  the  evening  to  visit 
the  daughter  of  a drunkard ! To  think  that  my  Goethe,  my 
heart’s  favorite,  my  pride,  and  my  love,  has  turned  from  me 
to  a person  who  is  so  low  that  he  himself  is  ashamed  of  her, 
and  only  visits  her  clandestinely,  anxiously  endeavoring  to 
avoid  recognition!” 

“If  I did  that,  it  was  for  your  sake,”  cried  he,  pale  with 
inward  agitation,  his  lips  quivering,  and  his  eyes  sparkling. 
“ If  I visited  her  clandestinely,  I did  so  because  I knew  that 
your  noble  perception  was  dimmed,  and  that  you  were  no 
longer  capable  of  looking  down  upon  these  petty,  earthly  re- 
lations from  a more  exalted  stand-point.  If  you  were  wise 
and  high-hearted,  Charlotte,  you  would  ignore  a relation 
that  lies  entirely  out  of  the  sphere  in  which  we  both  live.  Of 
what  nature  is  this  relation?  Upon  whose  rights  does  it  tres- 
pass? Who  lays  claim  to  the  feelings  I bestow  upon  this  poor 
creature?  Who  claims  the  hours  that  I pass  in  her  com- 
pany?” * 

With  a loud  cry  of  anguish,  Charlotte  raised  her  arms 
toward  heaven,  “ 0 God,  he  admits  it!  He  admits  this  fear- 
ful relation!” 

“Yes,”  said  he,  proudly,  “he  does,  but  he  also  entreats  you 
to  aid  him  in  preventing  the  relation  you  so  greatly  abhor, 
from  degenerating — to  aid  him  in  keeping  it  as  it  is.  Con- 
fide in  me  again,  look  at  this  matter  from  a natural  point  of 
view,  permit  me  to  reason  with  you  on  the  subject,  and  I 
may  still  hope  to  bring  about  a good  understanding  between 
us.”  t 

“Not  I!”  she  cried,  with  a proud  toss  of  her  head.  “No 
good  understanding  can  exist  between  us  while  this  person 
stands  in  the  way — this  person  who  makes  me  blush  with 
shame  and  humiliation,  when  I reflect  that  the  hand  which 
grasps  my  own  has,  perhaps,  touched  hers ; that  these  lips — 
oh.  Wolf,  I shudder  with  anger  and  disgust,  when  I reflect 

♦Goethe’s  own  words.— See  “ Correspondence  with  Madame  von  Stein,”  vol.  iü.« 
p.  328. 

tn)id. 


478 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


that  you  might  kiss  me  after  having  kissed  her  a short  time 
before!” 

There  will  be  no  further  occasion  for  such  disagreeable 
reflections,”  said  he,  gruffly,  his  countenance  deathly  pale. 

Out  of  love  I have  endured  much  from  you,  but  you  have 
now  gone  too  far!  I repeat  it,  you  will  never  again  have  to 
overcome  the  disgust  of  being  kissed  by  me,  and  while  I,  as 
you  observed,  have  perhaps  kissed  another  but  a short  time 
before ! And  as  for  this  other  woman,  I must  now  confess 
that  you  were  quite  right  in  reproaching  me  for  visiting  her 
clandestinely,  and  making  a mystery  of  our  ^relation.  You 
are  right,  this  is  wrong  and  cowardly ; a man  must  always 
avow  his  actions,  boldly  and  openly;  and  this  I will  do! 
Farewell,  Charlotte,  you  have  shown  me  the  right  path,  and 
I will  follow  it!  We  now  separate,  perhaps  to  meet  no  more 
in  life ; let  me  tell  you  before  I go  that  I owe  to  you  the 
happiest  years  of  my  life ! I have  known  no  greater  happi- 
ness than  my  confldence  in  you — the  confldence  that  has 
hitherto  been  unbounded.  Now,  that  this  confldence  no 
longer  exists,  I have  become  another  being,  and  must  in  the 
future  suffer  still  further  changes!”  * 

He  ceased  speaking,  and  struggled  to  repress  the  tears  that 
were  rushing  from  his  heart  to  his  eyes.  Charlotte  stared  at 
him  in  dismay  and  breathless  anxiety.  Her  heart  stood  still, 
her  lips  were  parted,  but  she  repressed  the  cry  of  anguish  that 
trembled  on  her  lips,  as  he  had  repressed  his  tears.  A warm, 
tender,  forgiving  word  might  perhaps  have  called  him  back^ 
and  all  misunderstanding  might  have  vanished  in  tears,  re- 
morse, and  forgiveness;  but  Charlotte  was  too  proud,  she  had 
been  too  deeply  wounded  in  her  love  and  vanity  to  consent  to 
such  a humiliation.  She  had  exercised  such  great  power  over 
Goethe  for  the  past  ten  years,  that  she  perhaps  even  now  be- 
lieved that  he  would  return,  humble  himself  before  her,  and 
endeavor  to  atone  for  the  past.  But  the  thought  did  not 
occur  to  her  that  a man  can  forgive  the  woman  who  mistrusts 

* Qoetbe'B  own  words.— See  “ Correspondence  with  Madame  von  Stein,  vol.  iii.t 
p.m 


YOUTH  VICTORIOUS. 


479 


his  love,  but  that  he  never  will  forgive  her  who  wounds  his 
pride  and  his  honor. 

Charlotte  did  not  speak;  she  stood  motionless,  as  in  a 
trance,  and  saw  him  take  up  his  hat,  incline  his  head,  and 
murmur:  ‘^Farewell!  dearest,  beloved  Charlotte,  farewell!” 

Then  all  was  still,  and  she  saw  him  no  longer!  She 
glanced  wildly  and  searchingly  around  the  room,  and  when 
the  dread  consciousness  that  he  had  gone,  and  that  she  was 
surrounded  by  a terrible  solitude,  dawned  upon  her,  Charlotte 
sank  down  on  her  knees,  stretched  out  her  arms  toward  the 
door  through  which  his  dear  form  had  vanished,  and  mur- 
mured, with  pale,  quivering  lips:  ‘^Farewell!  lost  dream  of 
my  youth,  farewell!  Lost  delight,  lost  happiness,  lost  hope, 
farewell ! Night  and  solitude  surround  me ! Youth  and  love 
have  departed,  and  old  age  and  desolation  are  at  hand! 
Henceforth,  no  one  will  love  me!  I shall  be  alone!  Fear- 
fully alone!  Farewell!” 

While  Charlotte  was  wailing  and  struggling  with  her  grief, 
Goethe  was  pacing  restlessly  to  and  fro  in  the  shady  little 
retreat  in  the  park  to  which  he  had  so  often  confided  his  in- 
most thoughts  in  the  eventful  years  that  rolled  by.  When 
he  left  the  park,  after  hours  of  struggling  with  his  own  heart, 
an  expression  rested  on  his  noble  and  handsome  countenance 
fchat  had  never  been  observed  there  before.  An  expression  of 
mingled  gloom  and  determination  was  depicted  in  his  fea- 
tures. His  eyes  were  luminous,  not  with  their  usual  glow  of 
enthusiasm,  but  with  subdued  and  sudden  fiames.  “De- 
scended into  hell,  and  arisen  again  from  the  dead!”  mur- 
mured he,  with  a derisive  smile,  as  he  walked  on  through  the 
streets  to  the  wretched  little  house  in  which  Christiane  Vul- 
pius’s  drunken  father  and  his  family  lived. 

She  came  forward  to  greet  him  with  an  exclamation  of 
joyous  surprise,  for  it  was  the  first  time  Goethe  had  visited, 
in  the  light  of  day,  the  little  house  in  which  she  lived.  She 
threw  herself  into  his  extended  arms,  entwined  hers  around 
his  neck  and  kissed  him. 


480 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


Goethe  pressed  her  lovely  head  to  his  bosom,  and  then 
raised  it  gently  between  his  hands.  lie  gazed  long  ^nd 
tenderly  into  her  large  blue  eyes.  “Christiane,’'  murmured 
he,  “Christiane,  will  you  be  my  wife?” 

A dark  glow  suffused  itself  over  her  face  and  neck,  and  then 
a clear  ringing  peal  of  laughter,  like  the  joyous  outburst  of  a 
feathered  songster,  escaped  her  coral  lips,  displaying  two 
rows  of  pearly  teeth.  “I,  your  wife,  my  good  friend?  Why 
do  you  jest  with  poor  little  Christiane?” 

“ I am  not  jesting,  Christiane.  I ask  you  in  all  earnest- 
ness, Will  you  be  my  wife?” 

“In  all  earnestness?”  repeated  she,  the  gaze  of  her  large, 
soft  eyes  fastened  with  an  expression  of  astonishment  on 
Goethe,  who  stood  regarding  her  intently,  his  countenance 
radiant  with  a tender  smile. 

“Give  me  an  answer,  Christiane.” 

“ First,  give  me  an  answer,  my  good  friend.  Answer  this 
question.  Do  you  love  me?  Am  I still  your  pet,  your  sing- 
ing-bird, your  little  love,  your  fragrant  violet?” 

“ You  still  are,  and  will  ever  remain  my  pet,  my  singing- 
bird,  my  little  love,  and  my  violet.” 

“ Then  let  me  remain  what  I am,  my  dear  sir.  I am  but 
a poor  little  girl,  and  not  worthy  to  be  the  wife  of  a gentle- 
man of  high  rank ; I would  cut  but  a poor  figure  at  your 
side,  as  the  wife  of  the  mighty  privy-councillor,  and  you 
might  even  suppose  I had  only  accepted  your  love  because  I 
had  seen  the  altar  and  this  magnificence  in  the  background.” 

“ I could  not  think  so,  my  darling ; I know  that  you  love 
me.” 

“ Then  I wish  you  to  understand,  good  sir,  that  I must  re- 
main as  I am,  for  you  are  pleased  with  me  as  I am.  Let  me 
still  remain  your  violet,  and  blossom  in  obscurity,  observed 
by  no  one  but  you,  my  good  friend  and  master.  I will  serve 
you,  I will  be  your  maid-servant,  and  will  work  and  sew  and 
cook  for  you.  For  this  I am  suited ; but  I cannot  become  a 
noble  lady  worthy  to  bear  your  celebrated  name.  If  I were 


YOUTH  VICTORIOUS. 


483 


yonr  wife,  yon  would  often  have  cause  to  blush  for  me ; if  I 
remain  your  love,  I can  perhaps  amuse  you  by  my  little 
drolleries,  and  you  would  have  no  cause  to  be  ashamed  of  the 
ignorant  girl  who  craved  nothing  except  to  be  near  you,  and 
to  have  you  smile  on  her  sometimes.’'  * 

Christiane,  you  shall  ever  be  near  me ; I will  always  smile 
on  you!'’  protested  Goethe,  deeply  moved. 

Always  near  you!”  repeated  Christiane,  in  joyous,  exult- 
ing tones.  “Oh,  do  let  me  be  with  you,  good  sir!  Let  me 
be  your  servant — your  housekeeper.  I will  serve  and  obey 
you,  I will  honor  you  as  my  master,  and  I will  love  you  as 
my  dearest  friend!” 

“And  I,”  said  Goethe,  laying  his  hand  on  her  golden  hair,, 
“ I swear,  by  the  Eternal  Spirit  of  Love  and  of  Nature,  that 
I will  love  you,  and  that  your  happiness  shall  be  the  chief  end 
of  my  life.  I swear  that  I will  honor  you  as  my  wife,  protect 
and  cherish  you  as  my  child,  and  be  to  you  a husband  and 
father  until  death.” 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her  shining  hair  and  fair  brow,  and 
gazed  tenderly  into  her  lustrous  eyes.  “ And  now,  my  pet, 
get  ready  and  come  with  me!” 

“To  go  where?  You  cannot  intend  to  walk  with  me 
through  the  public  streets  in  the  broad  light  of  day?” 

“ Through  the  public  streets,  and  in  the  broad  light  of  day, 
at  your  side!” 

“But  that  will  not  do,”  said  she,  in  dismay.  “It  would 
not  be  proper  for  a noble,  celebrated  gentleman  to  be  seen  in 
public  with  a poor,  humble  creature  like  myself.  What 
would  the  world  say?” 

“ Let  the  world  say  what  it  will ! Come,  my  violet,  I will 
transplant  you  to  my  garden,  and  there  you  shall  blossom  in 
the  future.” 

She  no  longer  resisted,  but  threw  her  shawl  over  her  shoul- 
ders, covered  her  golden  tresses  with  the  hat  adorned  with 

* Christiane  Vulpius  really  rejected  Goethe’s  offer  of  marriage.— See  Lewes’s  Life 
of  Goethe,  vol.  ii.  p.  181. 


i82 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


roses  of  her  own  manufacture,  stepped  with  Goethe  from  be- 
neath the  roof  of  her  father’s  wretched  house,  and  walked  at 
his  side  through  the  streets  to  the  stately  mansion  on  Market 
Square,  henceforth  destined  to  be  her  home. 

Goethe  conducted  her  up  the  broad  stairway,  through  the 
antechamber,  and  into  his  reception-room.  Both  were  silent, 
but  the  countenances  of  both  were  radiant  with  happiness. 

With  a gentle  hand  he  relieved  her  of  her  shawl  and  hat, 
pressed  her  to  his  bosom,  and  then,  with  upturned  eyes,  he 
cried,  in  loud  and  impressive  tones:  “Oftmals  hab’  ich 
geirrt,  und  habe  mich  wieder  gefunden,  aber  glücklicher  nie; 
nun  ist  dies  Mädchen  mein  Glück!  Ist  auch  dieses  ein 
Irrthum,  so  schont  mich,  ihr  klügeren  Götter,  und  benehmt 
mir  ihn  erst  drüben  am  kalten  Gestade.’*  * 


CHAPTER  XII. 

SCHILLER’S  MARRIAGE. 

The  two  great  intellects,  whose  genius  shed  such  rays  of  light 
over  Weimar,  and  over  all  Germany,  neither  knew  nor  loved 
each  other.  These  two  heroes  of  poetry  still  kept  at  a dis- 
tance from  each  other,  and  yet  there  was  a wondrous  uniform- 
ity in  their  inner  life,  although  their  outward  existence  was 
so  different.  Goethe,  the  recognized  poet,  the  man  of  rank, 
who  had  never  known  want  or  care : Schiller,  still  struggling, 
creating  much  that  was  great  and  beautiful,  but  aspiring  to, 
and  foreseeing  with  prophetic  mind,  a future  of  greater  and 
more  brilliant  success — Schiller,  the  man  of  humble  stand- 
ing, who  was  still  wrestling  with  want  and  care.  His  anxiety 
and  poverty  were  not  destined  to  be  relieved  by  the  appoint- 
ment which  Schiller  received  in  the  year  1789,  as  Professor 

♦Often  have  I erred,  and  always  found  the  path  again,  but  never  found  myself 
happier;  now  in  this  inaidim  lies  my  liappiness.  If  this,  too,  is  an  error,  oh  spare  me 
the  knowledge,  ye  gods,  and  let  me  only  discover  it  beyond  the  gravel  ” 


SCHILLER’S  MARRIAGE. 


483 


of  History  at  the  University  of  Jena,  for — no  salary  was  at- 
tached to  this  professorship! 

“A  Mr.  Frederick  Schiller,’'  wrote  (not  the  poet,  hut)  the 
Minister  Goethe — a report  forwarded  to  the  Duke  Charles 
August  at  that  time — a Mr.  Frederick  Schiller,  who  has  made 
himself  known  to  the  world  by  his  History  of  the  Nether- 
lands, is  disposed  to  take  up  his  abode  at  the  University  of 
Jena.  The  possibility  of  this  acquisition  is  all  the  more 
wortny  of  consideration  from  the  fact  that  it  could  be  had 
gratis.” 

Gratis!  The  Dukes  of  Weimar,  Meiningen,  Altenburg, 
and  Gotha,  the  patrons  of  the  University  of  Jena,  could  offer 
nothing  but  a professorship  without  salary  to  the  poet  of  “ Don 
Carlos,”  of  ‘^Fiesco,”  of  ‘^Louise  Müllerin,”  and  of  “The 
Robbers” — to  the  poet  of  so  many  glorious  songs,  to  the  au- 
thor of  “The  History  of  the  Netherlands!”  They  had  but 
one  title,  but  one  appointment,  to  bestow  upon  the  man  to 
honor  whom  was  to  honor  themselves,  and  this  appointment 
was  made  to  save  expense ! 

Schiller  accepted  this  professorship  with  the  nobility  of 
mind  of  the  poet  whose  soul  aspired  rather  to  honor  and  re- 
nown than  to  pecuniary  reward,  and  who  had,  for  those  who 
profited  by  his  labors  while  withholding  all  compensation, 
nothing  but  a contemptuous  shrug  of  the  shoulders  and  a 
proud  smile.  Schiller’s  friends  were,  however,  by  no  means 
satisfied  with  this  appointment ; his  practical  friend  Körner 
called  his  attention  to  the  fact,  that  the  necessities  of  life 
were  also  worthy  of  some  consideration,  advising  him  to  in- 
form the  minister  of  state  that  the  addition  of  a salary  to  his 
title  of  professor  was  both  desirable  and  very  necessary.  But 
Schiller  was  too  proud  to  solicit  as  a favor  what  had  not  been 
accorded  from  a sense  of  duty.  He  would  not  beg  bread  for 
the  professor^  hoping  that  the  poet  would  be  able  to  support 
him.  He  had  been  accustomed  to  study  close  economy,  and 
to  struggle  with  want ; care  had  been  his  inseparable  companion 
throughout  his  entire  life.  The  poet  had  ever  looked  up  to 


484 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


heaven  in  blissful  enthusiasm,  rejoicing  in  the  glory  of  God, 
and  had  been  “ with  Him”  while  the  world  was  being  divided 
among  those  who  understood  looking  after  their  pecuniary 
interests  better  than  the  poet.  His  heart  was  rich,  and  his 
wants  were  few.  He  did  not  desire  wealth,  and  had  refused 
the  rich  lady  tendered  him  in  marriage  by  his  friend  Körner. 
His  loving  heart  should  alone  be  his  guide  in  the  selection  of 
a wife. 

His  loving  heart ! Had  not  Schiller  a Charlotte,  as  well  as 
Goethe?  The  year  1789  had  been  an  eventful  one  in  Goethe’s 
heart’s  history,  and  had  effected  a final  separation  between 
Goethe  and  his  Charlotte : the  same  year  was  also  destined  to 
be  an  important  one  in  Schiller’s  heart’s  history,  and  to  bring 
about  a crisis  in  his  relations  to  his  Charlotte. 

The  experience  of  the  two  w^omen  at  this  period  was  of  a 
similar  nature.  Charlotte  von  Kalb  had  often  entreated  Schil- 
ler to  pay  her  a visit,  but  in  vain.  He  had  invariably  excused 
himself  with  the  plea  that  the  duties  of  his  professorship  in 
Jena  were  of  such  a nature  that  it  was  impossible  to  leave 
there  even  for  a single  day. 

At  last  Charlotte  despatched  a messenger  to  Jena  with  this 
laconic  letter:  “ If  you  do  not  come  to  me  in  Weimar,  I will 
go  to  you  in  Jena.  Answer.”  And  Schiller’s  answer  was — 

I am  coming!” 

She  was  now  awaiting  him,  gazing  fixedly  at  the  door;  a 
nameless  fear  made  her  heart  throb  wildly. 

‘‘He  shall  not  find  me  weak,”  murmured  she;  “no,  I will  ' 
neither  weep  nor  complain.  No,  my  pride  must  give  mo 
strength  to  conceal  my  anguish,  and  to  hear  the  decision, 
whatever  it  may  be,  with  a smiling  countenance.  I will  cover 
my  heart  with  a veil,  and  it  shall  rest  with  him  to  withdraw 
it  with  a loving  hand,  if  he  will.” 

“ Here  you  are  at  last,  my  Frederick!”  she  said  to  Schiller 
on  his  arrival.  “ It  seems,  however,  that  a threat  was  neces- 
sary to  bring  you !” 

“No,  dearest  friend,”  replied  Schiller,  gayly,  “the  threat 


SCHILLER’S  MARRIAGE. 


485 


was  unnecessary!  You  know  that  I love  you  with  my  whole 
soul,  and  my  heart  has  always  ye  rned  to  see  you  once  more. 
The  duties  of  my  professorship  are  such  that  I find  it  almost 
impossible  to  leave  Jena/' 

A bitter  smile  rested  for  a moment  on  Charlotte’s  lips,  but 
she  quickly  repressed  it.  “ It  is  but  natural  that  the  new 
professor  should  he  so  busily  engaged  as  not  to  be  able  to  find 
time  to  pay  his  friend  a visit.  And  yet,  Frederick,  it  was 
necessary  that  I should  speak  to  you ; life  has  now  brought 
me  to  a point  where  I must  decide  upon  taking  one  of  two 
paths  that  lie  before  me." 

‘‘  Charlotte,  I am  convinced  that  your  heart  and  your  wis- 
dom will  prompt  you  to  take  the  right  path,"  said  Schiller. 

She  inclined  her  head  in  assent.  “ At  our  last  interview  I 
was  excited  and  agitated ; I reproached  you  for  not  having 
spoken  to  my  husband.  I believe  I even  wept,  and  called  you 
faithless  and  ungrateful." 

“ Why  awaken  these  remembrances,  Charlotte?  I have  en- 
deavored to  forget  all  this,  and  to  bear  in  mind  that  we  should 
make  allowance  for  words  uttered  by  our  friends  when  irri- 
tated. We  have  both  dreamed  a sweet  dream,  my  friend, 
and  have,  unfortunately,  been  made  aware  that  our  romantic 
air-castles  are  not  destined  to  be  realized  in  this  prosaic 
world." 

“ Do  you  call  the  plans  we  have  both  made  for  our  future, 
romantic  air-castles?" 

“Yes,"  replied  Schiller,  with  some  little  hesitation,  “I  am 
unhappily  compelled  to  do  so.  A marriage  with  you  was  the 
brightest  and  most  glorious  air-castle  of  my  fantasy;  and  may 
the  egotism  of  my  love  be  forgiven  if  I once  dreamed  that 
this  castle  might  on  some  blissful  day  descend  to  earth  and 
open  its  portals  to  admit  us  within  its  radiant  halls ! But 
sober  thought  followed  quickly  upon  this  trance  of  ecstasy, 
and  told  me  that  these  heavenly  dreams  could  not  be  realized." 

“ Why  not?" 

" Because  I can  offer  you  no  compensation  for  the  great 


486 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


sacrifice  yon  would  be  compelled  to  make,  and  because  the 
thought  that  you  might  live  to  regret  what  you  had  done  fills 
me  with  horror.  You  are  a lady  of  rank,  accustomed  to  the 
comforts  and  luxuries  of  an  aristocratic  house.  I am  only  a 
poor  professor,  accustomed  to  hardships  and  want,  and  not  in 
a condition  to  provide  a comfortable  home  for  a wife.  Who- 
ever takes  me  must  enter  upon  life  with  modest  expectations, 
and  begin  an  existence  at  my  side  that  offers  little  for  the 
present  but  hopes  and  prospects.  It  would  even  require  much 
self-denial  on  the  part  of  a young  girl,  who  is  but  just  begin- 
ning life,  to  become  the  wife  of  a poor  professor  and  poet. 
How  much  more  would  it  require  on  the  part  of  a lady  of 
high  rank  to  exchange  a palace  for  an  humble  cottage,  and 
to  relinquish  wealth,  rank,  and  even  the  son  she  so  dearly 
loves?  What  could  I give  her  in  return  after  she  had  relin- 
quished all  these  blessings?  Charlotte,  to  live  with  me  is  to 
labor,  and  labor  would  wound  your  tender  hands.  Therefore, 
forgive  the  enraptured  poet,  who  thought  only  of  his  own 
-lappiness  when  he  dared  to  hope  you  might  still  be  his, 
without  reflecting  that  he  had  no  right  to  purchase  his  happi- 
ness at  the  expense  of  that  of  his  idol.'' 

‘‘You  are  right,  my  dear  friend;  we  must  never  permit 
love  to  make  us  selfish,  and  we  must  consider  the  happiness 
of  the  object  of  our  love  more  than  our  own.  We  will  both 
consider  this  and  act  accordingly.  You  have  my  happiness  at 
heart;  let  me,  therefore,  consider  yours.  Schiller,  I conjure 
you  by  the  great  Spirit  of  Truth  and  Love,  now  surely  hover- 
ing over  us,  tell  me  the  truth — answer  the  question  I am 
about  to  ask  as  truthfully  as  you  would  before  God : Do  you 
love  me  so  firmly,  so  warmly,  and  so  exclusively,  that  my 
possession  can  alone  make  you  happy?" 

“ Charlotte,  this  is,  indeed,  a question  that  I could  only 
answer  before  God." 

“ God  dwells  in  the  breast  of  each  human  being,  and,  by 
the  God  of  Love,  who  has  stretched  out  Ilis  hand  over  me,  I 
demand  of  you  a truthful  answer  to  my  question:  Do  you 


SCHILLER’S  MARRIAGE. 


487 


love  me  so  firmly,  so  warmly,  and  so  exclusively  that  my  pos- 
session can  alone  make  you  happy?” 

A pause  ensued — a long  pause.  The  God  of  Truth  and  of 
Love,  whose  presence  Charlotte  had  so  solemnly  proclaimed, 
alone  beheld  the  pale  countenances  of  the  two  beings  who 
stood  face  to  face  with  the  bitter  feeling  that  nothing  on  earth 
is  constant,  and  that  all  is  subject  to  change  and  destruction — ’ 
even  love ! 

‘‘No!”  said  Schiller,  in  a low  voice,  “no,  I do  not  love  you 
so  firmly,  so  warmly,  and  so  exclusively.  Nor  do  I believe  we 
would  be  happy  together,  for  it  is  only  when  no  passion  exists 
that  marriage  can  unite  two  beings  in  an  eternal  union ; and 
then,  Charlotte,  you  are  also  too  exalted  for  me,  and  a woman 
who  is  a superior  being  cannot,  I believe,  make  me  happy.  I 
must  have  a wife  whom  I can  educate,  who  is  my  creation, 
who  belongs  to  me  alone,  whom  I alone  can  make  happy,  and 
in  whose  existence  I can  renew  my  own — a wife  who  is  young, 
inexperienced,  and  gentle,  not  highly  gifted,  devoted  to  me, 
and  eager  to  contribute  to  my  comfort  and  peace.”  ^ 

“In  a word,  a woman  who  is  young,”  said  Charlotte,  with 
proud  composure,  “ or  rather,  a young  girl  who  is  like  a sheet 
of  white  paper,  on  which  your  love  is  to  write  the  first  word.” 

“ Yes,  Charlotte,  so  it  is!  You  understand  my  heart  as  you 
have  always  understood  it.” 

“ I relinquish  from  to-day  all  further  claim  to  any  such 
understanding,  and  I can  only  give  you  one  last  piece  of  ad- 
vice, and  that  is,  to  ask  Mademoiselle  von  Lengefeld  if  she  is 
not  desirous  of  being  the  sheet  of  paper  on  which  you  could 
write  your  name.  I advise  you  to  marry  Mademoiselle  von 
Lengefeld;  she  seems  to  possess  all  the  required  qualifications: 
she  is  not  gifted,  has  no  experience,  and  can  certainly  not  be 
called  a superior  being.” 

“But  a noble,  an  amiable  being,”  cried  Schiller,  passion- 
ately ; “ a being  full  of  innocence  and  goodness,  a fair  creature 
full  of  heart  and  feeling,  full  of  gentleness  and  mildness; 

* Schiller’s  own  words.— See  “ Schiller’s  Correspondence  with  Körner,”  voh  ii 


488 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


moreover,  she  has  a noble  heart,  and  a mind  capable  of  great 
cultivation.  She  has  understanding  for  all  that  is  intellect- 
ual, reverence  for  all  that  is  great  and  beautiful,  and  is  at  the 
same  time  modest,  affectionate,  playful,  and  naive.” 

“ In  brief,  she  is  an  ideal,”  said  Charlotte,  derisively.  “ But 
let  your  thoughts  sojourn  with  me  for  a moment  longer.  At 
my  request  you  have  told  me  the  truth,  now  you  shall  hear 
the  truth  from  my  lips.  We  might  have  spared  ourselves  all 
these  explanations,  but  I desired  to  probe  your  heart  to  assure 
myself  that  I would  not  wound  you  too  deeply  by  telling  you 
what  I must  now  avow.  Now  that  I am  no  longer  uneasy  on 
that  score,  you  shall  hear  the  truth  from  my  lips.  My  air- 
castles  have  vanished  also — vanished  so  long  since,  that  I 
scarcely  have  a recollection  of  them,  and  can  only  think  of 
them  as  of  a foolish  dream,  that  neither  could  nor  should  have 
been  realized.  I have  awakened,  and  I will  remain  what  I 
am,  the  wife  of  Mr.  von  Kalb,  and  the  mother  of  my  son.  I 
live  once  more  in  the  present,  and  the  past  with  all  its  rec- 
ollections and  follies  is  obliterated.”  * 

“ I am  glad  to  hear  this,”  said  Schiller,  in  a clear  and  com- 
posed voice,  the  gaze  of  his  large  blue  eyes  fastened  on  Char- 
lotte’s cold  and  haughty  countenance  with  an  expression  of 
severity.  “ I am  glad  to  hear  that  the  past  is  obliterated  from 
your  remembrance,  as  it  is  from  mine.  I can  now  speak  to 
you  freely  and  openly  of  the  happiness  which  the  future  has, 
as  I hope,  in  store  for  me.  I love  Charlotte  von  Lengefeld, 
and  now  that  you  have  discarded  me,  I am  at  liberty  to  ask 
her  to  become  my  wife.” 

‘‘  Do  so,”  said  she,  quietly.  “ We  are  about  to  separate,  but 
my  blessing  will  remain  with  you;  any  correspondence  be- 
tween us  in  the  future  would,  of  course,  be  annoying,  and  as 
our  letters  of  the  past  have  become  meaningless,  I must  re- 
quest you  to  return  mine.”  f 

“ As  you  had  already  written  to  me  on  this  subject  several 

♦Charlotte’s  own  words. — See  “Schiller’s  Life  of  Caroline  von  Wollzogen.” 
t Charlotte’s  own  words. — See  “ Charlotte:  A Life  Picture,”  p.  80. 


SCHILLER’S  MARRIAGE. 


489 


times,  I took  the  precaution  of  bringing  these  letters  with  me 
to-day.  Here  they  are.  I have  preserved  them  carefully  and 
lovingly,  and  I confess  that  it  gives  me  great  pain  to  part  with 
these  relics  of  the  past.” 

He  handed  her  the  little  sealed  package  which  he  had  drawn 
from  his  breast-pocket;  she  did  not  take  it,  however,  but 
merely  pointed  to  the  table. 

“ I thank  you,  and  I will  now  return  your  letters.” 

She  walked  into  the  adjoining  room,  closing  the  door  softly 
behind  her.  With  trembling  hands  she  took  Schiller’s  letters 
from  the  little  box  in  which  she  had  kept  them.  She  kissed 
them,  pressed  them  to  her  heart  and  eyes,  and  kissed  them 
again  and  again,  but  when  she  saw  that  a tear  had  fallen  on 
the  paper  she  wiped  it  off  carefully ; she  then  walked  rapidly 
to  the  door  and  opened  it.  On  the  threshold  she  stood  still, 
composed,  proudly  erect. 

Schiller,  here  are  the  letters!” 

He  approached  and  took  them  from  her  hand,  which  she 
quickly  withdrew.  She  then  returned  to  the  adjoining  room, 
locking  the  door  behind  her. 

This  was  their  leave-taking,  this  their  parting,  after  long 
years  of  love ! 

With  downcast  eyes  and  in  deep  sadness  of  heart,  Schiller 
left  the  house  of  the  woman  he  had  once  loved  so  ardently. 
But  this  soon  passed  away  and  gave  place  to  the  blissful  feel- 
ing that  he  was  once  more  free — free  to  offer  his  heart,  his 
hand,  and  his  life,  to  the  woman  he  loved! 

A few  days  later  his  heart’s  longing  was  gratified.  He  went 
to  Rudolstadt  and  received  a loving  and  cordial  welcome  from 
both  sisters.  Both ! But  only  one  of  the  sisters  was  at  liberty 
to  bestow  her  hand.  Caroline  was  not ! Her  hand  was  fet- 
tered by  her  plighted  troth,  and  even  if  her  husband’s  con- 
sent to  a separation  could  have  been  obtained,  there  were 
other  fetters.  She  was  in  her  sister’s  confidence.  She  knew 
that  Charlotte  loved  Schiller  tenderly. 

They  were  together  in  the  quiet  little  parlor,  they  three 


490 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


alone,  for  the  mother  was  absent  on  a little  journey.  Schiller 
sat  between  the  sisters,  his  countenance  radiant  with  happi- 
ness. 

“ Oh,  my  fair  friends,  how  delighted  I am  to  be  with  you 
once  more!'' 

“Schiller,"  whispered  Caroline,  laying  her  hand  gently  on 
his  shoulder,  “ Schiller,  I have  a word  to  say  to  you.  Come!" 

She  conducted  him  to  a window-recess,  and  inclined  her 
head  so  close  to  his  ear  that  her  trembling  lips  kissed  one  of 
his  fair  locks.  “Schiller,"  whispered  she,  “you  love  my  sis- 
ter, and  I know  that  she  loves  you.  Courage,  confess  your 
love,  and  God  bless  you  both!" 

Having  said  this,  she  walked  noiselessly  from  the  room,  re- 
tired to  her  solitary  chamber,  closed  the  door  behind  her,  and 
sank  down  on  her  knees.  She  shed  no  tears,  and  the  brave 
soul  of  this  noble  woman  was  exalted  above  all  pain  in  this 
hour  of  her  great  sacrifice.  Her  chaste  lips  would  not  express 
the  noble  secret  in  words,  even  before  God.  But  her  Maker 
may  have  read  her  sacrifice  in  the  expression  of  anguish  and 
resignation  in  her  upturned  countenance. 

“Be  happy,  Schiller!  God  bless  you  both!  Be  happy! 
then  I will  be  happy,  too." 

On  returning  to  the  parlor,  Caroline’s  countenance  shone 
with  pleasure,  and  her  lips  parted  in  a happy  smile  when  she 
saw  the  two  lovers  in  a close  embrace,  heart  to  heart. 

“ Oh,  dear  Caroline,  she  has  confessed ; you  were  certainly 
right ! She  loves  me,  she  is  mine.  And  so  are  you,  Caroline, 
you  are  also  mine,  and  we  three  will  belong  to  each  other  for 
evermore!" 

“Yes,  for  evermore,  my  friend,  my  brother!"  She  gently 
entwined  her  arms  around  Schiller’s  and  Lottie’s  neck;  and 
now  the  three  were  joined  in  one  close  and  loving  embrace. 

“ I have  at  last  entered  the  haven  of  happiness,"  said  Schil- 
ler, in  deep  emotion.  “ I have,  at  last,  found  my  home,  and 
eternal  peace  and  repose  are  mine.  I am  encircled  with  your 
love  as  with  a halo,  ye  beloved  sisters;  and  now  all  the  great 


SCHILLER’S  MARRIAGE. 


491 


expectations  which  yon  have  entertained  concerning  me  will 
be  realized,  for  happiness  will  exalt  me  above  myself.  Char- 
lotte, yon  shall  never  again  have  cause  to  tell  me  I look 
gloomy,  for  your  love  will  shed  a flood  of  sunshine  on  my  ex- 
istence hereafter.  You  shall  teach  me  to  laugh  and  be 
merry.  0 God,  I thank  Thee  for  permitting  me  to  And  this 
happiness!  I,  too,  was  born  in  Arcadia!’' 

They  held  each  other  in  a close  embrace,  they  wept  for  joy, 
and  their  souls,  beaming  eyes,  and  smiling  lips,  exchanged 
mute  vows  of  eternal  love  and  fldelity. 

These  were  blissful  days  for  Schiller.  Madame  von  Lenge- 
feld  had  given  her  consent  to  the  marriage  of  her  daughter 
Lottie  with  Schiller,  sooner  than  the  lovers  expected.  Charles 
August  gave  the  poet  the  title  of  privy-councillor,  and  at- 
tached a salary  of  two  hundred  dollars  to  his  professorship, 
as  a marriage  present.  The  title  delighted  Madame  von 
Lengefeld,  and  somewhat  reconciled  her  aristocratic  heart  to 
the  thought  that  her  daughter,  who  had  been  on  the  point  of 
becoming  a maid  of  honor,  should  now  marry  a man  of  the 
people.  Schiller  deemed  his  salary  of  two  hundred  dollars 
quite  a small  fortune,  and  hoped  that  this,  together  with  the 
fruits  of  his  poetic  labors,  would  be  sufficient  to  provide  a 
comfortable  home  for  his  darling,  and — “ space  in  the  smallest 
cottage  for  a happy  and  loving  pair!” 

They  were  a “happy,  loving  pair;”  and  the  serene  heaven 
of  their  happiness  was  undimmed  by  the  smallest  cloud.  Had 
a cloud  appeared,  Charlotte’s  quick  eye  would  have  detected 
and  dissipated  it  before  the  lovers  were  aware  of  its  existence. 
The  sister  watched  over  their  happiness  like  their  good  genius, 
like  a faithful  sentinel. 

At  times,  while  gazing  dreamily  into  his  Lottie’s  soft  eyes, 
Schiller  would  smile  and  then  ask  her  if  she  really  loved  him, 
as  though  such  happiness  were  incredible. 

In  reply,  Charlotte  would  smile  and  protest  that  she  had 
loved  him  for  a long  time,  and  that  her  sister,  who  had  known 
her  secret,  could  confirm  her  statement. 

n 


492 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


“ And  she  it  was  who  told  me  this  sweet  secret.  Yes,  Car- 
oline was  the  beneficent  angel  who  infused  courage  into  my 
timid  heart.” 

“Yes,  she  is  an  angel!”  said  Charlotte,  thoughtfully.  “I 
look  up  to  her  as  to  a being  far  superior  to  myself,  and,  let 
me  confess,  my  beloved,  that  the  thought  sometimes  torments 
me  that  she  really  could  be  more  to  you  than  I am,  and  that 
I am  not  necessary  to  your  happiness.” 

He  gazed  into  her  lovely  countenance,  an  expression  of 
perfect  peace  resting  on  his  own.  “ Your  love  is  all  I require 
to  make  me  happy.  The  peculiar  and  happiest  feature  of  our 
union  is,  that  it  is  self-sustaining,  ever  revolving  on  its  own 
axis  in  a well-defined  orbit ; this  forbids  my  entertaining  the 
fear  that  I could  ever  be  less  to  either  of  you,  or  that  I could 
ever  receive  less  from  you.  Our  love  has  no  need  of  anx- 
iety— of  watchfulness.  How  could  I rejoice  in  my  existence 
unless  for  you  and  Caroline? — how  could  I always  retain 
sufficient  control  over  my  own  soul,  unless  I entertained  the 
sweet  conviction  that  my  feelings  toward  both,  and  each  of 
you,  were  of  such  a nature  that  I am  not  forced  to  withdraw 
from  the  one  what  I give  to  the  other?  My  soul  revolves  be- 
tween you  in  safety,  ever  returning  lovingly  from  the  one  to 
the  other,  the  same  star,  the  same  ray  of  light,  differently  re- 
flected from  different  mirrors.  Caroline  is  nearer  to  me  in 
age,  and  therefore  more  closely  akin  to  me  in  the  form  of  her 
thought  and  feeling ; but  I would  not  have  you  other  than 
you  are,  for  all  the  world,  Lottie.  That  in  which  Caroline  is 
your  superior,  you  must  receive  from  me ; your  soul  must  ex- 
pand in  my  love,  and  you  must  be  my  creation.  Your  blos- 
som must  fall  in  the  spring  of  my  love.”  * 

“ Yes,”  cried  Charlotte,  entwining  her  arm  more  closely 
around  his  neck,  “ I will  be  your  creation,  and  happy  shall  I 
feel  in  the  consciousness  of  belonging  to  you,  and  of  being 
able  to  contribute  somewhat  to  your  happiness.  ” f 

♦ Schiller’s  own  words.— See  “ Schiller’s  Life  of  Caroline  von  Wollzogen.'" 
t Lottie’s  own  words.— Ibid. 


SCHILLER’S  MARRIAGE.^ 


493 


On  the  morning  of  the  twentieth  of  February,  1790,  a closed 
carriage  drove  rapidly  from  Rudolstadt  in  the  direction  of 
Jena.  But  this  carriage  stopped  in  the  little  village  in  the 
immediate  vicinity  of  the  university-city — Weningenjena — at 
the  door  of  the  village  church  with  its  tapering  spire. 

The  sexton  was  standing  at  the  open  door  in  his  Sunday 
suit ; when  the  carriage  drove  up,  he  hastened  forward  to 
open  the  door.  A tall  gentleman,  attired  in  black,  stepped 
out;  his  countenance  was  pale,  but  a wondrous  light  beamed 
in  his  eyes,  and  noble  thoughts  were  enthroned  on  his  brow, 
while  his  lips  were  parted  in  a soft  smile.  With  tender  solici- 
tude, he  helped  an  elderly  lady  from  the  carriage.  Then 
followed  a younger  lady,  with  pale  cheeks,  but  with  eyes  that 
were  radiant  with  love  and  peace.  At  last  a young  girl — a 
girl  with  rosy  cheeks,  and  a timid,  childlike  smile  on  her 
fresh  lips — was  about  to  descend  from  the  carriage,  but  the 
tall  gentleman  would  not  suffer  her  to  touch  the  pavement 
with  her  tender  little  feet.  He  raised  her  fair  form  in  his 
arms,  and  bore  her  over  the  rough  stones  and  into  the  church. 

The  two  ladies  followed,  and  behind  them  came  the  sexton, 
gravely  shaking  his  head,  and  ruminating  over  the  strangely 
quiet  nature  of  the  approaching  ceremony.  He  did  what 
Pastor  Schmidt,  who  was  already  standing  between  the  burn- 
ing wax-candles  in  front  of  the  altar,  had  told  him  to  do. 
He  closed  and  locked  the  church  doors,  so  that  no  one  should 
see  what  was  going  on  in  the  church. 

And  you,  too,  ye  rude  winter  winds,  hold  your  breath  and 
blow  softly!  and  thou,  thou  clear  Diue  sky,  look  down  mildly; 
and  thou,  bright  sun,  shed  thy  warmest  rays  through  the 
windows  into  the  little  village  church  of  Weningenjena.  For 
the  poet  Frederick  Schiller  is  standing  before  its  altar  at  the 
side  of  his  lovely  bride.  Charlotte  weeps,  but  her  tears  are 
tears  of  emotion  and  of  joy.  The  mother  stands  at  her  side, 
her  hands  folded  in  prayer.  Caroline’s  eyes  are  upturned; 
and  God  reads  the  mute  entreaty  of  her  lips. 

Schiller’s  countenance  is  radiant  with  peace  and  happiness^ 


494 


GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER. 


and  manly  determination  beams  in  the  large  blue  eyes  that 
gaze  so  firmly  and  tranquilly  at  the  preacher,  who  stands  be- 
fore the  altar,  proclaiming  the  sacred  nature  of  the  union 
about  to  be  consummated. 

Subdue  your  fury,  ye  boisterous  winter  storms!  do  not 
touch  the  poet’s  cheeks  too  rudely  with  your  cold  breath.  He 
has  already  suffered  much  from  cold  winter  winds,  he  has 
journeyed  over  rough  paths — has  renounced  and  struggled, 
and  has  often  seen  his  heart’s  fairest  blossoms  bruised  and 
borne  away  by  rude  storms.  Be  tranquil,  and  let  the  spring- 
time come,  that  the  buds  of  his  hopes  may  put  forth  blossoms. 

Shed  thy  glorious  light  .upon  this  little  church,  thou 
heavenly  sun ! greet  the  poet  Frederick  Schiller,  the  poet  of 
the  German  nation,  who  is  now  celebrating  life’s  fairest  fes- 
tival before  its  holy  altar ! But, 

“ Ah,  life’s  fairest  festival 
Ends  the  May  of  life  anon; 

With  the  girdle,  with  the  veil. 

Is  the  fond  illusion  gone  I ” 


(41) 


THE  EUD. 


Date  Due  i 

1 

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BHivnujixi  ot  omojusiiri 
IIBfiABY 


